UNDER   THE   ARCH 


UNDER  THE 
ARCH 

By 
LADY    HENRY   SOMERSET 

Author  of 
"  Sketches  in  Black  and  White  " 


"  Under  the  arch  of  life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ; ' ' 

— DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


New  York 

Doubleday,   Page   £3"  Company 
1906 


Copyright,  1906,  by 

Doubleday,  Page   <5r°   Company 

Published,  March,  1906 

All  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian 


MY    MOTHER 


PRINCIPAL   CHARACTERS 

LADY  CLIFFE,  a  young  married  woman,  brilliant,  im- 
passionate,  and  sentimental,  who  learns  of  the 
things  which  she  suffers. 

SIR  JOHN  CLIFFE,  a  straightforward,  unromantic 
Englishman. 

ELIZABETH  MAYNELL,  an  imaginative  girl  much  im 
pressed  by  the  sorrows  of  the  people,  who  deter 
mines  when  her  own  happiness  is  shipwrecked  to 
live  for  their  good. 

ERIC  ERRINGTON,  artistic,  self-absorbed,  vain,  and 
unscrupulous,  but  very  attractive  to  women. 

MICHAEL  FANE,  a  socialist,  impetuous,  frank,  and  true 
to  his  ideals,  but  too  much  absorbed  in  his  work  to 
notice  the  details  which  affect  the  happiness  of 
others. 

OLD  MR.  ERRINGTON,  a  wealthy  banker. 

His  SUBMISSIVE  WIFE. 

Miss  OSTERLEY,  who  is  always  hunting  a  social  grievance. 

FATHER  MARTIN,  an  old  man  with  a  strong  power  of 
sympathy  and  the  wisdom  of  wide  experience. 

BILLY  AND  SALLY,  slum  children  who  live  in  the  Court 
in  which  Elizabeth  works. 

LADY  HORNDEN,  Lady  Cliffe's  mother;  foolish,  worldly ; 
the  desire  to  see  her  daughter  happy  the  only  reality 
in  her  artificial  life. 

MRS.  RODNEY,  a  society  woman. 

LADY  AUGUSTA  LEAVEN,  who  desires  to  be  a  social 
success  and  a  philanthropist. 

MARTHA,  Elizabeth's  old  nurse. 


UNDER   THE    ARCH 


UNDER  THE  ARCH 


CHAPTER  I 

"WiLL  you  have  another  egg?" 

The  voice  that  spoke  these  words  was  subdued,  and 
the  face  of  the  pretty  fair-haired  young  woman  was 
very  grave.  Opposite  to  her  sat  the  man  to  whom  the 
question  was  addressed;  a  tall,  sunburnt,  broad-shoul 
dered  man,  who  would  everywhere  be  recognized  as  an 
Englishman,  with  crisp,  curly  hair,  and  the  general 
appearance  of  having  just  come  out  of  his  bath.  He 
was  eating  his  breakfast  in  silence.  He  too  looked  subdued 
and  solemn. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her  for  a 
moment. 

"It  is  horrible,"  she  said;  "I  feel  as  if  it  were  dread 
ful  to  talk,  and  yet  impossible  to  be  silent.  It  always 
appears  to  me  that  it  requires  real  courage  to  be  the  first 
person  after  a  death  to  ask  any  member  of  the  family 
what  they  will  have  to  eat.  It  seems  like  disrespect 
for  the  dead;  and  yet  it's  got  to  be  done  by  someone, 
you  know,  Jack." 

"That  is  an  unfortunate  simile  to  use  to-day,"  said 
Jack.  "I  am  not  dead,  and  I  hope  I  may  not  be  just 
yet." 

"Of  course  not;  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  that 
direction  with  the  corpse.  You  are  among  the  bereaved. 
But  seriously,  do  let  us  talk  right  up  to  the  last  about 

3 


4  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

anything,  everything,  only  let  us  talk.  These  last  days 
have  been  so  awful,  the  whole  house  smelling  like  a 
saddler's  shop,  and  every  horrible  old  relation  whose 
existence  one  had  forgotten  coming  to  poke  round  the 
kit  and  try  to  understand  the  use  of  each  aluminium 
cooking  pot." 

"Well,  it  will  be  over  soon,"  said  Jack. 

"Oh,  don't  Jack;  you  talk  like  a  man  in  a  jail,  eating 
his  last  breakfast  before  being  hanged." 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  last  breakfast,"  said  Jack  slowly. 
"Come,  Kit,  old  girl,  let's  drop  this  dreary  chaff.  I 
must  try  and  get  some  business  done.  I  wonder  if  you 
understand  Rodgers  will  pay  you  the  cheques  quarterly; 
anything  you  want  you  must  ask  him  for.  He  will  look 
after  everything,  only,  of  course,  you  won't  run  amuck? 
But  he's  got  enough  to  meet  all  your  reasonable  wants." 

"All  right,"  she  answered.  "I  won't  go  to  Paris 
and  order  a  thousand  gowns  and  three  trousseaux  of 
underlinen;  but  after  all,  nowadays,  it's  only  a  man 
who  is  capable  of  that." 

She  was  talking  for  the  sake  of  saying  something, 
and  as  she  did  so  the  color  came  and  went  quickly,  and 
the  thin  hands  nervously  rolled  the  crumbs  of  bread 
into  little  hard  balls.  At  last  Jack  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  rose,  throwing  his  napkin  down  on  the  floor. 

"I  must  go  out  for  a  few  minutes,"  he  said,  as  he 
stood  by  her.  "I  shan't  be  gone  long,  and  we  must 
start  at  eleven  o'clock." 

"Out?"  said  Katherine,  looking  at  him,  her  great 
shining  blue  eyes  turned  up  to  his  face.  "Out?  Why 
it's  almost  time  to  go." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  answered;  "but  it's  only  for  a 
little  while." 

A  moment  more  and  he  was  gone.  She  heard  the 
hall  door  bang  as  she  still  sat  on  at  the  breakfast  table, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  5 

resting  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and  looking  out  over  the 
dreary  London  leads,  thinly  veiled  by  the  white  muslin 
curtains.  In  less  than  two  hours  he  would  be  gone. 

"How  I  wish  I  really  knew  what  I  felt  about  any 
thing,"  she  thought.  "  Sometimes  I  am  sick  at  heart 
at  the  thought  of  the  long  distance,  and  the  risk,  and 
all  it  means  for  him.  Sometimes  I  almost  feel  that 
the  separation  will  be  good,  that  to  have  freedom,  and 
not  to  be  expected  to  love  anybody,  will  be  a  relief.  Poor, 
poor  old  Jack,  and  poor  little  me.  I  wonder  which  is 
real,  my  sorrow,  or  my  little  bit  of  content.  I  don't 
know.  I  always  feel  I  am  two  people.  My  mind  is 
constantly  trying  to  climb  out  of  one  self  into  the  other, 
and  yet  both  seem  the  real  me." 

She  rose  slowly  and  went  to  the  glass  and  looked 
vacantly  into  it,  as  though  she  hardly  recognized  her 
self.  She  patted,  almost  unconsciously,  some  stray 
curls  on  her  forehead,  and  then  lesiurely  left  the  room 
to  give  some  orders  to  the  servants. 

Presently  the  banging  of  the  front  door  announced 
her  husband's  return,  and  she  heard  his  voice  calling 
to  her  to  put  on  her  hat,  as  the  carriage  would  be  round 
at  once.  And  when  she  came  down  the  stairs  and  crossed 
the  hall  she  felt  as  though  she  walked  in  a  dream.  She 
saw  him  shake  hands  with  the  butler,  while  tears  ran  down 
the  old  man's  face. 

"Good-bye,  Sir  John.  God  bless  you,  and  give  you 
'ealth  and  a  safe  return  to  'er  ladyship.  God  keep 
you  safe,  Sir  John,"  he  said,  as  he  still  grasped  his  hand. 
"I  never  thought  when  you  was  little,  and  I  used  to  'elp 
you  play  soldiers,  I  should  live  to  see  this  day;  but  you 
may  rely  on  me  taking  all  care  of  everything,  whether 
you  comes  back  or  not,"  and  he  turned  away,  ashamed 
of  his  grief. 

"Oh,  it'll  be  all  right,  Lane,"  said  his  master.     "You 


6  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

mind  everything,  and  I  shall  be  home  soon  to  tell  you 
all  about  the  splendid  time  I  shall  have  had.  Good-bye, 
George,"  he  said  to  the  footman,  who  looked  all  unpre 
pared  with  a  speech,  hot  and  shiny  after  carrying  luggage. 

But  another  good-bye  had  to  be  said. 

"No,  old  man,  no."  The  shiny  nose  was  rubbed 
against  his  hand.  "No,  Nip,  old  boy,  I  can't  take  you," 
and  for  the  first  and  only  time  his  voice  shook  for  a 
moment,  as  he  ran  his  hand  over  the  rough  stubby  head. 

"Take  care  of  him,  old  girl,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  as 
they  got  into  the  brougham.  "Is  my  bag  in,  and  my 
coat?  That's  all";  and  as  if  it  were  a  relief,  he  called, 
"Go  on,"  and  the  horses  moved  forward. 

There  is  no  place  which  has  a  more  prosaic  outward 
manifestation  than  a  railway  station,  and  yet  on  no 
stage  is  the  drama  of  life  more  vividly  enacted.  The 
little  servant  girl  goes  to  her  first  place,  and  struggles 
to  be  cheerful  in  that  trying  moment  of  first  parting. 
She  pokes  her  chubby  face  through  the  train  window 
and  gasps  her  last  farewells. 

"Tike  care  of  mother,  kiss  oant,  tike  care  of  yer- 
self,"  all  these  unceasing  injunctions  to  stifle  the  sob 
that  shall  not  come,  and,  waving  her  little  red  hand, 
she  is  borne  to  the  unknown. 

The  newly-married  couple  try  to  look  indifferent 
as  they  walk  up  to  the  platform,  until  the  grain  of  rice, 
or  the  more  squalid  confetti,  betrays  them,  as  they  take 
their  seats  as  far  from  one  another  as  possible.  The 
station  is  the  first  act  of  that  new  life,  with  all  its  poten 
tialities  of  happiness  or  suffering. 

Three  men  have  entered  another  compartment,  one 
dressed  in  brown,  with  the  King's  brand  on  his  clothes. 
For  him  too  a  new  life  opens.  He  too  has  said  good-bye 
to  the  freedom  of  the  old  life,  but  he  is  now  fast  bound 
in  misery  and  iron.  By-and-by,  at  midnight,  in  the 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  7 

long  shadows  of  the  arc  lights,  there  will  stand  black 
figures  who  lift  a  coffin  into  the  train,  and  take  their  loved 
one  for  the  last  journey. 

To-day  the  mixture  of  tragedy  and  comedy  is  com 
plete.  Some  go  on  holiday.  The  early  spring  has 
beckoned  them  away  from  the  gray  streets  and  dingy 
squares,  and  has  called  them  with  enchanting  voices 
to  sunshine,  fields  and  flowers.  But  for  the  most  part, 
dust-colored  garbs  proclaim  the  departure  of  men  whose 
faces  are  set,  women  flushed  or  pale,  with  forced  smiles 
and  foolish  little  jests,  whose  laughter  is  nearer  tears. 

As  Sir  John's  brougham  drove  up  under  the  glazed 
archway  he. put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  then 
hastily  withdrew  it. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said;  "your  mother  has  come.  I 
thought  I  had  said  good-bye  to  her;  I  didn't  know  she 
would  be  here." 

"Oh,  bother,"  responded  Lady  Cliffe.  "She  loves 
a  scene;  she  is  never  happy  unless  she  can  be  the  centre 
of  some  fuss,  and  she  will  drive  me  mad  when  you  are 
gone." 

"Just  tell  her  to  leave  you  alone,"  said  Jack,  with 
that  splendid  ignoring  of  the  possible,  characteristic 
of  his  sex.  They  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  ticket  office. 
A  tall  and  still  handsome  woman,  dressed  in  long  draperies 
exquisitely  made,  and  carefully  arranged  to  suit  her  figure, 
came  to  meet  them. 

"My  darlings,"  she  said,  "my  heart  is  bleeding  for 
you;  I  could  not  resist  the  last  blessing.  My  beautiful 
child,  you  have  not  slept  all  night;  there  are  purple 
rings  round  your  eyes.  I  know  you've  been  weeping. 
I  don't  wonder.  Jack  never  looked  so  wonderfully  hand 
some — a  perfect  god  in  his  khaki." 

"For  God's  sake,  dear  lady,  don't  talk  nonsense," 
said  Jack,  flushing.  "The  whole  station  will  hear  you." 


8  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"My  child,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  turning  once  more 
to  her  daughter,  "I  think  I  am  suffering  more  than 
you.  When  a  mother  feels  for  her  child  in  sorrow  the 
anguish  is  greater  than  her  own." 

"Well,  mother,  we  won't  compare  anguishes  just 
now.  There's  Mary  \Vennington.  I  didn't  know  she 
was  going." 

"Oh,  didn't  you?"  said  her  mother.  "But,  of  course, 
she's  here  because  Arthur  Warley  is  going.  Such  a 
scene  I  saw  before  you  came  up.  There  they  were, 
holding  each  other's  hands  behind  the  waiting-room 
door.  I  came  away  at  once.  But,  my  dear,  what  can 
he  see  in  her?  She's  frightful,  and  her  hat  so  inappro 
priate.  Now  I  like  yours;  there  is  a  little  grief  bend 
in  it  which  speaks  of  tears,  and  all  the  coloring  of  that 
mole-colored  cloth  is  so  subdued  and  harmonious." 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  talk  clothes,"  said 
Katherine,  edging  away.  "See,  there's  Mr.  Farning- 
ham;  he's  looking  for  you." 

The  man  she  beckoned  came  up,  effusively  shaking 
hands.  Lady  Hornden  held  his  hand  for  two  or  three 
minutes,  explaining  minutely  all  she  was  experiencing 
at  that  terrible  moment  of  parting.  Mr.  Farningham 
was  one  of  those  elderly  men  who  are  content  to  descend 
the  hill  of  life  clasping  the  hand  of  a  dowager.  The 
higher  the  rank  the  happier  the  journey,  and  he  was 
only  too  glad  to  pour  out  his  condolences. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  murmured,  "but  you  are  so  brave, 
so  heroic.  What  a  strength  you  will  be  for  poor  dear 
Lady  Cliffe  to  lean  on.  Oh,  forgive  me,  but  what  a 
sleeve!  I  worship  such  lines  at  that.  Swanz,  of  course; 
no  one  but  a  Viennese  could  have  built  it.  I  always  know 
the  Viennese  hand  from  the  Parisian;  it  is  so  much 
more  grand-dame" 

"Dear  man,  you  have  the  eye  of  genius,"  said  Lady 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  9 

Horndcn,  smiling  delightedly  upon  him.  "Dine  with 
me  to-night,  and  go  to  the  play.  There  is  a  new  piece 
with  Mary  Milton.  I  am  told  she  is  perfect,  just  naughty 
enough,  and  not  too  naughty."  And  then  they  fell  to 
discussing  different  groups  on  the  platform,  able  to  be 
light-hearted,  for  to  them  there  was  no  tragedy  of  parting. 

Sir  John  and  his  wife  walked  slowly  together  toward 
the  reserved  carriage.  The  scene  was  still  a  dream  to 
her.  What  could  she  feel?  Her  head  was  dull  and 
heavy.  She  hoped  she  could  cry  when  he  left,  and  then 
reproached  herself  for  ever  doubting  the  possibility. 

Another  khaki  figure  walked  down  the  platform  to 
meet  her,  a  tall,  slight,  fair  man,  with  clear  blue  eyes,  and 
a  mouth  which  was  drawn  on  his  face  with  clean  lines 
like  one  of  Holbein's  drawings. 

"Lady  Cliffe,"  he  said,  "I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you 
to  say  good-bye.  Wish  me  luck,  won't  you?" 

Jack  walked  on  after  slapping  him  on  the  back,  say 
ing: 

"Hullo,  old  fellow,  I  wish  you  were  coming  with  our 
lot,  instead  of  that  confounded  yeomanry." 

Errington  smiled,  and  showed  a  gleam  of  white  even 
teeth;  but  his  eyes  looked  sad. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  to  Katherine;  "I 
want  you  awfully  to  do  something  for  me.  My  old 
dog  is  left  at  my  hotel  with  my  servant.  Would  it  be 
asking  too  much  for  you  to  take  care  of  him  ?  I  should 
be  so  grateful.  He's  awrfully  fond  of  me,  and  he  will 
pine,  I'm  afraid;  besides,  I  should  like  to  think  you 
had  him." 

"Of  course  I'll  take  him,"  said  Katherine.  "If  he 
fights  with  Jack's  dog  I'll  send  Nip  into  the  country." 
And  then  she  bit  her  lip,  feeling  she  had  said  a  stupid 
thing.  "I  mean,"  she  added,  "of  course  they'll  get 
on." 


io  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Take  your  seats,"  roared  the  official. 

"God  bless  you,"  said  Eric  Errington,  as  he  took 
her  hand.  "Pray  for  me  now  and  then."  And  he 
turned  hastily  away. 

Jack  came  back,  and,  putting  his  arm  round  her, 
said: 

"Good-bye,  old  girl;  you  remember  all  I  told  you 
about  business  and  everything.  Oh,  damn!"  he  ejacu 
lated,  "here's  your  mother  again." 

"  So  the  awful  moment  has  come,"  said  Lady  Hornden, 
preparing  for  a  final  scene.  "  God  bless  you !"  she  said, 
as  she  folded  him  in  her  sleeves.  "It  seems  terrible  not 
to  go  with  you  to  Southampton,  but  dearest  Katherine 
told  me  you  wished  to  go  alone.  See  here!  I  forgot; 
this  little  flask  is  always  to  go  with  you,  in  case  you  are 
faint  or  wounded ;  and  this  stuff  is  the  best  thing  on  earth 
for  sea-sickness.  It  cured  a  man  I  know  who  dies  every 
time  he  crosses  the  Channel." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jack  hoarsely,  in  a  voice  that 
had  little  of  gratitude  in  it.  Then  almost  shaking  her 
from  him,  he  turned  to  Katherine,  who  stood  looking 
dumbly  on.  "Good-bye,  dear  old  girl.  God  bless  you. 
Keep  well;  don't  overtire  yourself,"  he  said  lamely. 
Somehow  words  didn't  come  easily. 

There  were  groups  all  down  the  platform ;  loud  laughter, 
but  no  merriment;  hilarious  voices,  that  somehow  did 
not  seem  to  speak  in  tune,  said: 

"We'll  be  back  soon,  now  that  Bobs  has  gone,  and 
we  shall  give  the  Boers  a  real  trouncing.  We'll  soon 
settle  them.  Keep  your  peckers  up." 

Jack  looked  out  of  the  window  and  seemed  to  have 
no  more  words  at  his  command.  Katherine  felt  the 
moments  were  hours;  but  the  little  green  flag  waved 
at  last. 

"Good-bye,  good-bye,"  said  one  and  all.    For  how 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  n 

long?    For   time,    or   till    eternity?    None   knew;     but 

the  train  glided  out  and  on. 

****** 

Lady  Hornden  had  just  returned  from  the  station 
to  her  house  in  Park  Lane,  had  eaten  her  luncheon 
with  unimpaired  appetite,  and  after  having  changed 
her  dress  and  draped  herself  in  a  clinging  tea-gown 
was  prepared  for  the  usual  stream  of  afternoon  callers. 
The  responsibility  of  selecting  the  right  visitors  rested 
with  the  butler,  a  great  gentleman  with  a  cold  manner, 
who  advanced  in  a  mysterious  way  from  the  back  of 
the  hall,  when  the  two  footmen  had  thrown  open  the 
doors,  to  pronounce  the  word  of  admission  or  denial. 
If  the  guest  was  of  no  importance  he  would  call  to  them 
from  a  distance  in  a  strident  voice: 

"  'Er  ladyship  is  not  at  'ome,"  but  if,  although  judged 
unacceptable,  the  caller  was  of  a  social  position  which 
warranted  respectful  familiarity,  he  advanced  himself, 
and  unbending  for  a  moment  would  offer  to  take  a 
message,  but  the  condescension  was  momentary  and 
the  distant  demeanor  soon  resumed. 

Once  an  unwary  footman,  whose  training  was  still 
incomplete,  committed  the  fearful  indiscretion  of  ad 
mitting  the  country  clergyman  and  his  wife  while  a 
butler  was  upstairs  announcing  the  French  Ambassa 
dor.  The  man  was  sent  away  on  the  spot. 

"To  think,"  said  Mr.  Jennings,  with  almost  despair 
in  his  voice,  "that  you  'ave  so  little  tact  or  understanding 
that  you  could  mix  'er  ladyship's  callers  like  that!  You'd 
better  go  for  an  under  butler,  and  mind  plate,  for  you'll 
never  understand  the  delicate  dooties  of  the  front  door." 

Lady  Hornden  had  only  adjusted  her  black  drapery 
to  her  satisfaction  against  the  old-gold  brocade  of  the 
favorite  seat,  when  Jennings  threw  open  the  drawing- 
room  door  and  announced  Mrs.  Rodney. 


12  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Dearest!"  said  Lady  Hornden,  rising  and  holding 
out  both  hands.  "How  sweet  of  you  to  come  on  such 
a  day.  My  heart  has  been  aching  for  you.  You  can 
understand  how  torn  I  am,  too — my  little  Katherine — " 
Lady  Hornden  covered  her  face  with  her  hand,  on  which 
glittered  six  diamond  rings. 

"I  know  just  what  it  all  means.  Come  and  sit  here, 
and  let  us  talk  about  our  troubles  together." 

The  visitor  was  a  tall,  slender  woman.  At  first  you 
scarcely  noticed  her  delicately  moulded  features.  The 
eyes  were  the  only  thing  which  struck  you — large  and 
well  set,  it  seemed  as  though  the  pigment  had  over 
flowed  the  line,  for  the  whites  were  so  blue  that  it  was 
almost  difficult  to  judge  where  the  iris  ended.  It  was 
a  beautiful  face,  but  the  expression  was  hard.  The 
eyes  looked  out  on  the  world  with  steely  brightness. 
The  thin  lips  parted  for  a  moment  in  mirth,  but  never 
drooped  in  sadness.  She  would  have  been  more  beautiful 
could  she  have  looked  plain  for  a  day,  her  friends  used  to 
say. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  said,  "I  have  thought  it 
all  out,  and  I'm  not  going  to  make  any  trouble  at  all. 
Troubles  are  mistakes.  They  age  you,  and  wear  your 
temper,  and  then,  when  the  people  for  whom  you  have 
lost  your  most  priceless  possessions  come  home,  they 
only  say  you  have  ceased  to  be  attractive." 

She  drew  out  a  cigarette-case  as  she  spoke,  reached 
the  match-box  from  among  the  innumerable  silver 
knickknacks  on  the  table,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Then 
lying  bacK.  on  a  low  arm-chair  she  lazily  watched  the 
long  lines  of  blue  smoke  curl  upward. 

"You  see,  dear  Lady  Hornden,  we  can't  all  pretend 
to  be  like  Katherine.  George  is  gone,  poor  old  dear, 
and  lots  of  my  pals,  but  there  are  still  a  few  people  left 
to  play  about  with,  and  I  don't  mean  to  mope.  I  saw 


UNDER  THE  ARCH;  13 

Katherine  at  the  station;  she  looked  awfully  white,  but 
she'll  get  over  it  all  right,  like  the  rest  of  us." 

Lady  Hornden  looked  puzzled.  It  was  not  the  princi 
ple  that  perplexed  her;  it  was  the  crudeness  of  the  state 
ment.  She  was  still  early  Victorian  enough  to  like  a  thin 
layer  of  sentiment  scraped  over  all  questionable  morality. 
She  disliked  the  bald  way  in  which  things  were  spoken 
nowadays — things  which  she  no  doubt  had  herself  done 
in  her  youth,  but  had  never  classified. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  "you  are  so  down 
right.  Of  course  darling  Katherine  is  heartbroken;  but 
you  are  right,  every  woman  owes  it  to  herself  to  guard 
against  that  which  destroys  her  charm.  Did  you  see 
Lady  Wennington  at  the  station?"  she  added,  glad  to 
change  the  subject.  "I  thought  she  was  a  little  too 
marked  in  her  grief  at  saying  good-bye  to  the  wrong 
person.  However,  he  certainly  is  a  mari  complaisant" 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Rodney,  "so  is  every 
man  who  is  not  a  fool.  By  the  way,  Eric  Errington 
went  by  the  same  train,  didn't  he?  Volunteered,  I 
hear,  with  the  Blankshire  Yoemanry.  That's  bad 
luck  for  Katherine;  he  would  have  kept  up  her  spirits." 

Mrs.  Rodney  turned  her  large  bright  eyes  on  Lady 
Hornden,  and  looked  at  her  through  the  curling  smoke. 
Women  are  divided  into  two  species:  those  who  guard 
their  young  with  tiger-like  fidelity,  and  those  who  are  too 
selfish  to  have  even  this  natural  attribute.  Lady  Horn 
den  belonged  to  the  former,  and  in  a  moment  her  pro 
tective  instincts  were  aroused. 

"Oh  dear  no;  if  Eric  had  stayed  Katherine  would 
never  have  had  the  spirits  to  care  to  play  with  him  or 
anyone  else.  She  is  absorbed  in  Jack.  I  have  never 
seen  such  devotion  in  my  life.  When  she  dines  here, 
she  is  looking  at  the  clock  all  the  time  in  order  to  get 
away  the  instant  he  is  back  from  the  club.  If  I  go  there, 


i4  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

she  listens  for  him  to  come,  and  is  so  distracted  that 
I  never  can  get  her  to  attend  to  what  I  am  saying.  She 
really  is  head  over  ears  in  love  with  him,  and  no  wonder, 
for  a  more  charming  or  devoted  husband  never  lived. 
Poor  old  boy!  I  hope  he'll  come  back  safe."  And  she 
sighed  a  deep  sigh  and  clasped  her  white  hands  on  her 
black  dress. 

"I  daresay,"  said  Mrs.  Rodney  slowly,  "that  she's 
fond  of  Jack;  but  of  course  you  know  that  Eric  is  devoted 
to  her.  And  everybody  knows  that  she  liked  Eric  a  little, 
only  he  hadn't  any  money,  or  much  position,  so  you  were 
wise." 

Lady  Hornden  looked  doubtfully  at  Mrs.  Rodney. 
There  were  times  when  she  feit  that  she  almost  hated 
her. 

"Katherine,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "was  very  young; 
she  had  beauty  and  money,  a  rare  combination,"  she 
added,  looking  severely  at  her  visitor,  "and  I  was  the 
guardian  of  her  destiny.  Of  course  I  tried  to  influence 
her  as  I  felt  was  for  her  good.  That  was  my  wisdom," 
said  Lady  Hornden  bitterly. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Mrs.  Rodney.  "I  think 
from  your  point  of  view  you  were  right,  if  you  were  sure 
Jack  cared  for  her."  I  have  always  been  told  he  was 
the  one  good  young  man  in  London;  that  he  had  no 
previous  histories,  not  even  the  most  pardonable  little 
romance.  Personally,  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  a  man 
who  knew  nothing  of  the  world." 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  again  thrown  open, 
and  Mr.  Jennings  announced,  in  the  muffled  voice  of 
one  who  understands  how  to  suit  his  manner  to  special 
occasions : 

"Lady  Cliffe." 

Katherine  was  looking  pale,  with  delicate  blue  shadows 
round  her  eyes. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  15 

"Mama,"  she  said,  "I  thought  I  would  come  in  to 
tell  you  I'm  going  to  rest,  and  to  save  you  from  coming 
round.  Hullo,  Anne!  I  did  not  know  you  were  here. 
So  we've  all  foregathered  to  condole  with  each  other." 
She  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  smiled,  but  it  was  an  effort 
at  gayety  that  did  not  seem  very  successful.  "Has 
mama  been  telling  you  what  to  wear  and  what  to  eat, 
and  how  to  cook  a  new  dish?  She  is  my  mainstay  in 
the  art  of  living." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Rodney,  lighting  another  cigarette 
from  the  stump  of  the  old  one;  "we've  been  talking 
about  you,  and  she  says  you're  absolutely  wrapped  up 
in  Jack,  and  don't  care  a  fig  for  Eric,  or  any  other  of 
your  old  admirers.  It's  awfully  touching,"  said  Anne, 
putting  the  stump  of  the  cigarette  into  the  ash-tray. 
"Femme  du  foyer — what  a  beautiful  role." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Katherine,  growing  pink  in  a  moment. 
"I'm  no  better  than  anyone  else.  Jack's  a  good  old 
thing,  and  I'm  awfully  fond  of  him.  What  are  you 
doing  with  yourself  to-day?  Will  you  stay  and  play 
bridge?  Very  well,  here  we  are;  let's  get  a  table.  Will 
you,  mama?" 

And  presently  the  three  women  were  lost  in  that  modern 
narcotic  which  dulls  all  care.  The  afternoon  wore  on, 
and  only  when  the  clock  struck  seven  did  Lady  Hornden 
recollect  that  she  was  to  dine  with  Mr.  Farningham  and 
go  to  the  play. 

"Your  luck  is  monstrous,  Anne,"  she  said,  as  Mrs. 
Rodney  gathered  up  the  little  heap  of  money  that  lay 
beside  her.  Then  the  three  women  kissed  each  other 
and  parted. 

Katherine  Cliffe  drove  straight  home;  the  evening 
was  wet,  foggy  and  cheerless.  The  hall  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  London  house  looked  cold  and  deserted.  A  few 
sticks  and  umbrellas  and  a  covert  coat  of  Jack's  were  still 


1 6  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

in  the  stand.  The  room  where  the  packing  had  been 
done  had  been  tidied,  but  the  writing  materials  on  the 
table  were  disarranged,  as  he  had  left  them.  There  is 
nothing  so  pathetic  as  the  little  things  which  belong  to 
someone  who  has  gone  away  on  either  a  long  or  a  short 
journey.  They  alone  seem  immutable.  Who  has  not 
known  the  heartache  which  an  old  coat  or  a  pair  of  worn 
gloves  can  bring?  Who  has  not  felt  the  dreary  feeling 
of  the  unchangeableness  of  inanimate  objects,  when 
he  returns  to  the  home  of  long  ago,  and  sees  the  same 
ornaments,  the  same  pictures,  but  the  living  forms  which 
were  the  centre,  while  these  were  the  accessories,  are 
gone  never  to  return. 

Nip  was  the  only  living  creature  to  greet  Katherine's 
entrance.  His  tail  was  wedged  disconsolately  between 
his  hind  legs;  it  wagged  slowly  and  sadly,  even  when  she 
patted  his  rough,  broad  head. 

"  Poor  old  boy ! "  she  said,  "  do  you  miss  your  master  ?  " 

"Please,  my  lady,"  said  the  footman,  who  had  taken 
her  cloak  and  rug  from  the  carriage,  "there's  a  man 
'ere  with  a  dawg  and  a  note;  says  as  Vs  got  orders  to 
bring  it  to  you." 

The  color  came  into  Katherine's  face. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  said.  "Tell  the  man  to  come 
up." 

After  a  slight  scuffle  a  baize  door  swung  back  and 
a  small,  thick-set  servant  was  dragged  by  a  strong,  long 
haired  collie,  whom  he  endeavored  to  hold  in  bounds 
on  a  leather  lead. 

"Gently,  lad,  gently,"  he  kept  on  saying;  but  the 
collie  was  determined  to  go  on,  whether  he  followed 
or  not. 

"This,"  said  the  man,  panting  and  tugging  at  the 
lead,  "is  Mr.  Errington's  collie  dawg,  milady.  'E 
gave  me  orders  to  bring  it  to  yer  ladyship  at  once  after  he 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  17 

sailed,  with  this  note.  Down,  sir!  down,  sir!"  and  he 
held  out  an  envelope,  while  with  the  other  hand  he  strained 
the  lead  to  pull  the  animal  back. 

Katherine  patted  the  dog,  who  looked  eagerly  into 
her  face  with  his  amber  eyes,  panting  with  quivering 
tongue,  and  showing  his  pointed  ivory  teeth. 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"His  nime  is  Laddie,"  said  the  man.  "Good  dawg, 
good  dawg,"  as  he  struggled  again. 

Katherine  turned  away  and  opened  the  note. 

"I  would  ask  you  to  be  good  to  this  poor  lonely  thing," 
it  ran,  "as  you  are  good  to  every  living  creature.  I  dare 
not  ask  you  to  be  kind  to  it  because  he  has  been  my 
friend  and  companion;  but  will  you  keep  him  with  you 
till  I  come  back  ?  And  if  I  do  not,  may  he  stay  with  you 
and  find  that  happiness  which  is  the  lot  of  all  who  are 
near  you?" 

She  held  the  paper  for  a  moment,  and  then,  feeling 
that  the  eyes  of  the  servant  were  watching  her,  she  ordered 
him  to  loose  the  dog. 

"He  is  to  stay  here,"  she  said. 

Presently  an  ominous  growl  from  the  other  end  of 
the  hall  betokened  the  presence  of  Nip,  who  resented 
the  advent  of  the  tawny  stranger.  The  low  growl  was 
angrily  responded  to  and  a  fight  was  imminent.  Kather 
ine  hastily  rang  the  bell,  which  was  answered  by  the 
butler. 

"Take  Nip  away,"  she  said;    "he  is  ill-tempered." 

The  old  man  looked  aggrieved,  but  caught  the  dog 
by  his  collar  and  pulled  him  toward  the  door  which 
led  to  the  offices.  Nip  dragged  at  his  collar  and  growled 
his  remonstrance.  His  rough  coat  was  standing  up  like 
wire,  and  as  he  passed  into  the  lower  regions  he  cast 
a  reproachful  look  at  Katherine,  half  pathetic,  half 
angry. 


i8  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

The  incident  did  not  please  her.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  the  restless  collie's  head,  but  the  thought  that  Nip's 
banishment  was  her  first  act  after  her  return  to  the  solitary 
house  was  an  unpleasant  memory,  which  she  tried  to 
forget. 


CHAPTER  II 

EVENING  was  setting  in;  the  sky  was  leaden  and  the  dust 
rose  in  little  bustling  circles.  The  wind  caught  the  dirty 
paper  on  the  pavement  and  drove  it  along  the  street, 
making  a  constant  rustling  sound.  The  dull  court 
looked  gloomier  than  usual.  The  children  had  left  their 
play  for  a  while ;  they  had  been  screaming  at  their  games, 
as  only  town-bred  children  scream,  with  that  restless 
excitement  which  is  characteristic  of  the  fact  that  there 
is  no  proper  vent  for  their  energies;  but  a  fight  was 
taking  place  in  an  adjacent  alley.  A  crowd  had  gathered, 
and  nothing  can  equal  the  pleasure  which  the  arrival  of 
the  policeman,  and  the  subsequent  separation,  and  the 
possible  removal  of  the  combatants  to  the  nearest  police 
cell,  brings  to  the  slum  child. 

In  the  window  of  a  little  parlor  in  the  corner  house 
the  figure  of  a  girl  was  sitting,  looking  out  into  the  street. 
She  sat  motionless,  her  profile  clearly  drawn  against  the 
white  panes,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap;  the  droop  of 
the  head  gave  sadness  to  the  outline.  An  open  book  lay 
beside  her,  but  she  had  not  turned  the  pages. 

An  older  woman  entered  the  room  with  a  taper;  she 
was  about  to  light  the  gas,  but  the  girl  turned  with  an 
imploring  gesture: 

"Not  now,  Nanny,  not  now.  Let  me  be  in  the  dark 
a  while  longer." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Elizabeth,  if  you  wish,"  said  the  servant. 
Then,  with  the  affectionate  familiarity  of  a  trusted  friend, 
she  came  across  the  room,  and,  laying  her  hand  on  the 
slight  figure,  she  said:  " Don't  fret,  dear;  try  to  forget." 


2C  UNDER  THE  ARCH  , 

The  flickering  taper  was  still  in  her  other  hand,  and 
shed  fitful  touches  of  light  on  her  gray  hair  and  pale 
complexion.  The  kindly,  motherly  face  looked  on  the 
little  dark  head  that  was  pressed  against  the  window  with 
quiet  composure. 

"Oh,  Nanny!"  said  the  girl,  turning  wearily  toward 
her.  "I  can't  help  it;  I  do  try  to  forget.  I  have  no 
right  to  remember,  but  it's  such  a  hard  day."  She 
rose  as  she  spoke,  and  held  out  her  slim  hands  with  a 
gesture,  partly  helpless,  partly  of  despair. 

"Don't  you  fret,  dearie;  I  wouldn't.  Whatever 
'appens  will  'appen,  and  if  'e  does  come  'ome,  I  don't 
see  as  you'll  be  any  happier,  worse  luck." 

"You  mustn't  say  that,  you  dear  old  thing.  Don't 
let's  talk  of  it.  It's  best  just  borne;  but  days  like  this 
make  me  feel  how  it  all  lives,  and  nothing,  no,  not  all 
the  work  and  all  the  needs  of  the  people,  can  root  it  out." 

"Time  is  a  wonderful  doctor,"  said  the  elder  woman. 
"He  comes  and  sort  of  smothers  out  things,  and  makes 
us  forget,  if  we're  patient.  I'm  sure,  Miss  Elizabeth, 
I've  had  sorrows  as  I  felt  I  never  could  get  over,  but 
lor'!  to-day  I  'ardly  thinks  of  them.  When  Simmons 
was  took  sudden,  as  I've  often  told  you,  and  they  brought 
him  'ome  a  corpse,  and  I  'elped  wash  'im  and  put  'im 
in  his  coffin,  I  felt  I  never  should  get  over  it,  but  I  did. 
Three  months  after  I  took  in  washin',  and  many's  the 
time  I  felt  a  downright  brute,  I  eat  so  'earty,  an'  I  slep' 
so  well.  And  when  I  corned  to  your  gran'ma,  the  first 
situation  I  ever  took,  and  I  'eld  you  in  my  arms,  I  felt 
I  never  wanted  nothing  more  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  Nanny,  I  know,  I  know,"  said  Elizabeth,  look 
ing  at  her  \vith  the  pity  the  young  feel  for  the  old,  because 
they  realize  that  the  capacity  for  vivid  happiness  has  gone, 
and,  with  the  duller  sensibility,  suffering  is  less  poignant. 

A  gust  of  wind  swept  over  the  court.     The  rain  began 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  21 

to  fall.  The  children  came  shrieking  back,  and  disap 
peared  into  their  several  dingy  doorways  like  rabbits 
that  seek  their  burrow.  Yet  still  Elizabeth  sat  on. 
She  was  roused  from  her  solitary  watch,  however,  at  last, 
by  the  slamming  of  the  door,  footsteps  in  the  passage, 
a  man's  voice,  cheerfully  telling  Nanny  how  wet  it  was, 
while  he  took  off  his  dripping  coat;  and  then  the  door 
opened,  and  a  strong,  cheerful  voice  said: 

"Is  anything  wrong?" 

The  visitor  stood  in  the  doorway,  unable  to  find  his 
way  into  the  dark  room.  Nanny  hurried  past  him 
with  a  light,  and  soon  the  gas  was  burning.  He  was 
a  man  of  medium  height,  powerfully  built,  with  large 
head  and  massive  forehead,  and  deep-set  gray  eyes.  He 
had  a  short  "brown  beard  and  very  dark  hair.  There 
was  an  eager,  anxious  look  in  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were 
bright  and  restless. 

"Nothing  wrong,"  said  Elizabeth,  still  sitting  by 
the  'window,  half  turning  and  holding  out  her  hand, 
"only  I  was  tired,  and  couldn't  come  to  the  meeting." 

"You  missed  something,"  he  said,  throwing  himself 
into  an  arm-chair  and  crossing  his  legs.  "You  would 
have  thoroughly  enjoyed  it.  Gessner  was  superb.  I 
never  heard  him  better;  he  absolutely  demolished  Blount 
and  his  miserable  individualistic  theories.  I'm  most 
awfully  sorry  you  weren't  there." 

He  went  on  talking  in  his  eager  way,  as  though  the 
subject  in  which  he  was  interested  possessed  him.  He 
had  no  ears  for  anything  else.  Presently  Elizabeth  rose 
and  took  a  low  seat  opposite  to  him,  and  wearily  listened 
to  his  explanation  of  the  lecturer's  point  of  view. 

"Yes,  that  was  good,"  she  said,  when  he  paused; 
"but  what  will  come  of  it  all?  It's  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  again.  We  all  see  it  and  know  it,  but  everything 
goes  on  just  the  same.  I'm  tired  of  talk."  He  was 


22  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

watching  her  now.  "It  seems  to  me  that  all  this  eternal 
talk  is  as  if  a  doctor  were  perpetually  lecturing  a  sick 
man  on  what  health  really  is,  while  the  poor  patient 
can  only  pray  for  healing — healing,  that  is  what  we 
want,  healing  for  this  great  hospital  of  a  world,"  she 
said,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  together.  She  looked 
at  him  as  she  spoke,  and  saw  that  his  boots  were  muddy, 
which  annoyed  her,  and  then  she  felt  angry  with  herself 
for  noticing  so  insignificant  a  detail.  "Oh,  Michael," 
she  continued,  "I  am  so  tired  of  it  all;  so  tired  that  I 
sometimes  feel  I  would  rather  not  hear  anything  more 
about  people  who  are  suffering,  since  we  can't  help  them." 

"Betty,"  said  the  man  quietly,  "I  know  what  you 
feel.  You're  not  well  to-night;  you've  been  overdoing 
your  strength,  but  you  mustn't  lose  heart.  It's  only 
as  some  of  us  see  the  wrong,  and  try  to  right  it,  that 
we  can  awake  the  sleepers  all  round  us.  We  have  got 
to  be  content  to  be  torch-bearers  for  a  bit,  and  help 
people  to  find  the  right  way,  and  they  will  find  it.  It 
takes  a  while  to  rouse  them.  Then  they  have  to  rub 
their  eyes  and  find  out  where  they  are,  and  that  is  our 
moment  to  set  them  on  the  right  road.  You  were  always 
an  optimist,  Elizabeth." 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  smiling  sadly.  "I  remember 
old  Mrs.  Marner  saying  that  she  wasn't  going  to  get 
low  spirits  any  more.  She  had  heard  me  say  I  was  a 
hippopotamus,  and  she  was  going  to  try  to  be  a  hippo 
potamus  too.  But,  Michael,  I  feel  that  somehow  I  am 
losing  my  likeness  to  the  big,  powerful  beast." 

Michael  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed,  showing 
a  row  of  strong  white  teeth. 

"Take  courage,  little  Hippo,"  he  said;  "all  your 
strength  is  wanted  by  the  feeble,  who  look  to  you  in 
order  to  imitate  whatever  you  are,  and  that  must  be 
always  your  best.  No,  Elizabeth,  don't  lose  heart; 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  23 

we  have  set  ourselves  to  change  the  code  by  which  the 
world  is  governed,  at  any  rate  this  little  bit  of  the  western 
world  to  which  we  belong.  Good  God!"  he  said,  sitting 
upright,  "it's  a  splendid  work.  Fancy,  if  you  could 
really  show  men  that  the  commandment  which  rich 
men  listen  to  with  such  complacency  every  week,  'Thou 
shalt  not  steal,'  with  a  comfortable  feeling  that  it  does 
not  apply  to  them,  is  the  very  one  that  they  are  breaking, 
in  common  with  the  tramp  who  sneaks  a  loaf,  or  the 
poacher  who  bags  a  rabbit;  only  that  theirs  is  a  crime 
black  and  hideous,  whereas  the  other  is  often  excused 
a  thousand-fold  by  circumstances.  The  poor  man  is 
caught  and  put  into  prison;  that  doesn't  prove  his  guilt. 
The  other  sits  to  condemn  him  on  a  magistrate's  bench, 
or  is  made  a  baronet  or  a  peer,  and  patted  on  the  back 
as  a  valuable  member  of  society;  and  all  the  while  his 
slum  dwellings  are  the  breeding  places  of  crime.  But 
if  he  were  to  clear  them  he  would  lose  income,  and  so,  to 
benefit  himself,  he  steals  the  health  and  happiness  of 
men  and  women  and  little  children.  Most  people  never 
look  on  things  as  they  really  are,  but  are  contented  with 
what  they  seem.  That  is  why  the  horrible,  hideous 
hypocrisy  of  it  all  has  so  eaten  into  our  national  life." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke  and  paced  the  room. 

"  Don't  talk  as  if  you  were  at  a  public  meeting,  Michael," 
said  Elizabeth  peevishly. 

He  stopped,  standing  in  front  of  her;  she  was  leaning 
back  in  her  chair.  He  paid  no  heed  to  her  fretful  inter 
ruption;  it  was  as  though  he  had  not  heard  it;  he  was 
too  engrossed  in  his  subject. 

"You  and  I  think,  perhaps,  we  can  do  very  little 
against  the  great  tide  of  the  lust  of  gain;  but  if  we  can 
only  show  the  dastardly  cowardice  of  living  each  for 
himself,  and  only  rouse  people  from  this  stupor  which  is 
called  'content,'  to  realize  the  degradation  to  which  they 


24  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

have  come,  why,  that  is  a  divine  mission,  good  enough 
for  the  best."  He  looked  down  at  Elizabeth  absently, 
and  said,  after  a  pause:  "Yes,  I  know  you  suffer.  Each 
has  to  walk  the  via  dolor osa,  which  is  the  way  of  death, 
but  it  leads  to  resurrection.  But  you're  tired.  I  won't 
weary  you,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  again. 

"There  is  a  humble  little  detail  I  want  to  speak  of," 
he  added,  drawing  a  well-worn  book  from  his  pocket. 
"You  know  young  Joe  Carter,  who  used  to  work  at 
the  flour  mills.  He's  in  the  Militia,  and  he's  gone  to 
South  Africa,  bitten  by  this  thirst  for  men's  blood  they 
call  patriotism,  and  he's  left  that  girl  almost  penniless. 
Trouble  is,  they  weren't  married,  and  there's  a  baby 
expected.  It  is  a  hideous  lookout  for  her,"  he  said, 
looking  up  with  his  eager,  questioning  eyes.  "Great 
God!  we  call  it  Imperialism,  this  murder  of  another 
nation  for  land-grabbing;  and  with  our  usual  hypoc 
risy,  we  talk  of  British  honor.  How  much  should 
we  have  thought  of  British  honor  if  the  country  had 
no  mines?  We  deserve  to  be  beaten,  and  we  shall  get 
our  reward  some  time  or  other." 

"Michael,"  said  Elizabeth,  sitting  upright,  her  hands 
tightly  pressed  together,  "don't  let  us  talk  of  that.  The 
men  who  went  felt  it  their  duty,  and  they  are  willing  to 
die  for  it.  The  war  may  be  a  criminal  mistake,  but  it 
has  called  out  splendid  qualities  in  the  men  who  have 
risked  everything  to  go.  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  the  girl, 
and  go  to  her  to-morrow."  And  she  leaned  back  again 
as  though  the  effort  to  speak  had  tired  her. 

"Go  to  bed  and  get  a  long  sleep,"  said  Michael,  rising. 
"It's  the  only  medicine  you  need.  Good-night!"  and 
he  held  out  a  large,  well-shaped  hand  in  a  protecting  way. 

Presently  the  shutting  of  the  street  door  proclaimed 
that  he  had  gone  out  into  the  night.' 

Elizabeth  rose  and  went  to  the  window;    the  blind 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  25 

had  not  been  drawn.  The  street  was  silent  and  deso 
late.  Twice  a  church  clock  had  given  the  time  since  the 
last  passer-by  staggered  home  through  the  rain  to  bed. 
A  wet  night  chases  most  people  home,  and  to-night  the 
rain  had  been  drenching  when  the  public-houses  turned 
their  customers  out.  All  down  the  street,  doors  were  shut; 
blinds  were  drawn  across  closed  windows,  and  though 
in  most  a  light  still  burned,  it  was  a  dim  light  that  told 
of  smoking  lamps  turned  low  at  bed-time. 

The  black  pavement  glistened  in  the  light  of  the  street 
lamps,  bare  and  empty,  except  when,  now  and  then,  a 
stray  cat  picked  its  way  carefully  across  the  wet  flags. 
But  the  rain  was  over  now.  A  fresh  wind  was  blowing 
back  the  heavy  clouds  that  had  hung  over  London  all  day, 
and  high  overhead  a  strip  of  sky  showed  between  the 
roofs  of  the  tall,  dark  houses,  clear  deep  blue,  with  here 
and  there  a  brilliant  star. 

The  first  breath  of  wind  made  Elizabeth  open  the 
window,  and  the  strip  of  sky  above  held  her  there.  After 
a  hideous  afternoon  of  fog  and  rain  and  mud — a  day 
that  made  ugliness  more  ugly  and  misery  more  miserable 
— that  strip  of  sky  was  like  a  sight  of  green  fields;  like 
a  breath  of  air  from  the  hills;  like  the  sound  of  the  sea. 
Blue  sky  and  stars  above  the  black  houses;  it  seemed 
to  her  like  the  kind  face  of  God  looking  down  on  the 
wretched  street.  And  what  a  wretched  street  it  was! 
The  night  hid  its  dirt  and  squalor  now,  and  sleep  hid 
its  misery  and  pain.  But  daylight,  she  knew,  would 
soon  show  it  all  once  more.  The  quiet  night  would  pass, 
and  the  stars  be  hid,  and  men,  women  and  children  would 
wake  again  in  a  few  hours  to  hunger  and  sorrow  and  sin. 

"Night  brings  us  stars  as  sorrow  shows  us  truth." 
Was  it  true?  she  thought.  Night  did  not  always  bring 
us  stars,  or  else  we  were  so  blinded  by  the  flaring  lights  of 
the  street  that  we  could  not  see  them;  and  some  of  us 


26  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

were  so  shut  in  by  this  black  wall  of  London  that  we 
never  realized  there  was  a  sky  above,  never  lifted  our 
eyes  beyond  the  wall  of  houses. 

A  slow,  heavy  footstep  broke  the  silence.  Some 
body  was  coming  down  the  street — somebody  walking 
slowly  and  deliberately,  for  there  was  an  interval  of 
several  seconds  between  the  sound  of  each  step.  The 
sound  came  nearer,  then  a  woman  staggered  past  a 
lamp-post,  and  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lamp  Elizabeth 
recognized  the  broad  figure  of  Mrs.  Green,  the  rag  and 
bone  lady. 

She  was  talking  to  herself  in  a  low,  complaining  tone, 
something  about  a  farthing  and  the  treachery  of  a  blind 
man.  She  staggered  on  a  little  farther,  then  suddenly 
the  footsteps  ceased.  Elizabeth  leaned  out  of  the  window. 
Mrs.  Green  had  slipped  to  the  ground  and  was  now 
lying  on  her  back  on  the  pavement;  but  she  was  still 
talking,  still  complaining  of  the  blind  man  and  her  far 
thing.  Evidently  her  fall  had  not  interrupted  her  thoughts. 
But  by-and-by  the  voice  ceased;  Elizabeth  thought  she 
must  have  fallen  asleep,  till  her  voice  began  again,  this 
time  clear  and  distinct: 

"Gawd  in  heaven,  look  down  on  me!"  Mrs.  Green 
had  seen  the  stars.  "Here  I  lie,  flat  on  my  back,  and 
Gawd  in  heaven,  'E  sees  me."  Then  her  thoughts 
went  back  to  her  trouble.  "The  blind  man  'e  stole 
my  farden,  but  Gawd  in  'eaven  will  pity  me." 

For  half  an  hour  she  talked  to  the  strip  of  blue  night 
sky.  She  told  the  stars  the  story  of  the  farthing,  of  the 
blind  man,  and  much  of  her  history  that  Elizabeth  knew 
to  be  true.  She  had  just  begun  to  pray  when  a  police 
man  came  by  and  offered  to  help  her  home  to  bed. 

"Our  Father,  which  art  in  'eaven."  Mrs.  Green 
struggled  to  her  knees.  "'Allowed  be  Thy  Nime," 
she  began. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  27 

The  policeman  was  kindly. 

"Come  now,  Mrs.  Green,  come  home,  and  you  can 
say  your  prayers  there."  But  Mrs.  Green  would  not  heed. 

"Thy  Nime — Thy  Nime.  Wot  comes  arter  'allowed 
be  Thy  Nime,  Mister  Copper?" 

The  policeman  told  her.  Mrs.  Green  folded  her 
hands  like  a  child. 

"Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  do ,  and 

arter  Thy  will  be  done?" 

Again  the  policeman  prompted.  Petition  by  peti 
tion,  he  repeated  the  prayer  for  her,  and  Mrs.  Green 
said  it  after  him  as  a  child  might  at  its  mother's  knee. 

"For  ever  and  ever,  Amen.  Thank  you,  Mister 
Copper.  'Tain't  often  as  I  gets  time  to  siy  my  prayers, 
but  when  I  do,  I  likes  to  siy  them  right." 

Then  she  allowed  him  to  raise  her  to  her  feet  and 
help  her  home.  The  sound  of  their  footsteps  died  away, 
and  again  the  street  was  quiet.  But  it  was  not  for  long. 
Soon  two  children  came  down  the  street  and  settled 
themselves  on  the  doorstep  beneath  her  window. 

"My  mover  is  rowing,  so  I  came  out,"  said  one. 

"  I  ain't  been  indoors  to-night,"  said  the  other.  "  Farver 
and  mover's  bof  boozed." 

They  crouched  down  out  of  sight  and  she  heard  no 
more  for  several  minutes.  Then  suddenly  one  of  the 
children  began  to  sing.  There  was  something  almost 
uncanny  in  the  child's  voice,  singing  there  in  the  dark 
night.  Even  more  than  the  blue  sky  and  brilliant  stars, 
that  shrill  sweet  voice  brought  into  one  hateful  street 
a  breath  of  a  far-away  beautiful  world. 

"There  is  a  land  of  pure  deloight 
Where  saints  immorjul  rine." 

She  too,  then,  had  been  looking  at  the  stars.  But 
she  got  no  farther  with  her  song. 


28  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Don't!"  said  the  other  child  quickly,  in  a  voice 
that  was  sharp  with  pain.  "It  mikes  me  fink  of  the 
country,  and  I  can't  abear  it,  'cause  I'm  'ere." 

The  singing  voice  stopped,  and  again  the  street  was 
quiet,  but  Elizabeth  heard  in  the  silence  the  sound  of 
a  child  crying  softly  in  the  dark.  She  held  her  breath 
and  listened.  Then,  quick  as  thought,  she  ran  down  the 
stairs,  opened  the  door,  and  sat  on  the  doorstep  beside 
her.  The  dirty  little  head  pressed  against  her  shoulder, 
and  a  child's  hand  stole  into  hers,  and  she  forgot  the  ach 
ing  of  her  own  heart. 


CHAPTER  III 

ELIZABETH  MAYNELL  had  grown  up  in  the  conven 
tional  atmosphere  of  narrow  surroundings.  She  had 
never  known  either  of  her  parents,  for  her  father,  who 
had  held  a  high  position  in  the  army  in  India,  and  had 
won  the  distinction  of  the  Victoria  Cross,  died  just  before 
she  was  born.  Her  mother  never  recovered  the  blow, 
and  her  love  for  her  little  daughter  had  proved  too  frail 
a  tie  to  keep  her,  and  after  a  few  sad  months  she  followed 
her  husband  to  that  distant  country,  from  which  there  is 
no  leave  of  absence,  as  gladly  as  though  she  had  been 
called  to  rejoin  him  in  the  Indian  station. 

The  baby  was  left  to  the  care  of  her  grandmother 
and  her  aunt,  and  had  kno\vn  no  other  home.  Her 
grandmother  was  an  invalid,  her  aunt  a  conscientious, 
uninteresting  wroman,  firmly  persuaded  that  the  real 
art  of  educating  children  was  never  to  allow  them  to 
perceive  that  affection  held  any  place  in  daily  life.  So 
little  Elizabeth  was  reproved,  punished  and  taught,  but 
no  glimpse  was  ever  given  her  of  any  tenderness  that 
made  her  childish  presence  welcome,  or  any  caress  that 
interpreted  love. 

There  was  one  being,  however,  who  opened  the  door 
of  her  heart  with  a  magic  key,  who  understood  all  her 
moods,  to  whom  she  came  with  all  her  troubles,  and 
round  whose  neck  she  would  throw  her  baby  arms  and 
cover  the  kind  face  with  kisses.  Martha,  her  nurse, 
was  the  very  centre  of  the  child's  life.  Granny  might 
be  stern  and  silent,  auntie  fidgety  or  unjust,  but  Nanny 
always  knew  all  about  it,  sat  by  her  when  the  nights  were 

29 


30  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

dark,  and  held  her  hand  till  she  slept,  told  her  beautiful 
stories  out  of  her  head  of  majestic  queens  and  pretty 
princesses,  and  splendid  princes,  of  dragons  and  witches, 
of  dwarfs  and  fairies.  It  was  Nanny  in  whose  arms  she 
lay  when  the  fever  made  her  restless,  or  when  she  was 
wracked  with  whooping-cough.  People  might  come 
and  go,  but  Nanny  was  there,  and  Elizabeth  was  content. 
And  Nanny  loved  the  child  as  only  a  lonely  woman  can, 
who  has  no  other  channel  to  divert  the  current  of  her 
love.  The  pale  face  and  dark  eyes  were  to  her  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  world.  She  brushed  and  curled  and 
tended  the  dark-brown  hair  as  though  it  were  some  sacred 
trust.  There  were  times  when  hatred  positively  possessed 
her,  when  she  thought  the  child  was  unjustly  treated, 
and  almost  wilfully  misunderstood  in  her  loveless 
home. 

The  day  came  at  last  when  Elizabeth  went  to  school. 
Martha  looked  thin  and  worn;  she  had  not  slept  for 
nights.  The  dread  of  parting  overshadowed  her  like 
a  nightmare.  Dry- eyed  she  would  sit  by  Elizabeth's 
bed  and  tell  her  how  happy  a  place  school  really  was,  of 
all  she  would  do,  the  games  she  would  play,  and  the  dear 
little  girls  who  would  be  her  companions. 

The  torrents  of  tears  she  shed  were  unknown  to  Eliza 
beth,  who  thought  that  grown-up  people  never  cried, 
that  she  alone  enjoyed  the  doleful  privilege  of  throwing 
herself  sobbing  into  Nanny's  arms,  because  she  was  only 
a  little  girl,  while  the  strong  voice  comforted  her  and  never 
trembled. 

At  last  the  parting  came,  and  Elizabeth  found  that 
Nanny  had  been  right.  School  was  a  paradise  to  the 
lonely  girl,  to  whom  the  holidays  seemed  long  and  term- 
time  short.  She  learned  easily  and  well.  The  mistress 
was  a  woman  of  powerful  intellect  and  keen  interest.  She 
was  never  content  until  she  had  moulded  a  girl's  mind — 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  31 

not  merely  taught  conventional  accomplishments.  She 
saw  in  Elizabeth  a  strong  nature  with  intense  and  pas 
sionate  power  of  affection;  she  understood  the  restric 
tions  of  her  home  life,  and  she  set  out  to  widen  the  girl's 
sympathy,  to  soften  her  own  trials  by  a  deep  understand 
ing  of  the  wrongs  and  troubles  of  others,  and  to  turn  her 
enthusiasm  into  channels  which  should  bear  her  heart 
out  to  humanity  at  large. 

The  girl,  who  loved  the  elder  woman,  promptly  re 
sponded,  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  study  of  sociology 
and  political  economy,  with  the  result  that  no  more 
ardent  reformer  ever  espoused  the  cause  of  the  oppressed 
than  she.  Martha  would  listen,  half  frightened,  half 
proud  of  her  knowledge,  by  the  hour,  as  she  tried  to  show 
her  where  our  social  system  fails,  but  Martha  always 
ended  the  argument  by  returning  to  her  original  ideas. 

"It's  no  use,  Miss  Elizabeth,  God  made  some  rich 
and  some  po'r;  and  we  are  distinctly  told,  and  I  see 
no  reason  for  giving  up  my  religion,  that  we've  to  order 
ourselves  lowly  and  reverently  to  all  our  betters,  and  be 
content  with  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  'as  pleased  God 
to  call  us.  There  must  be  differences,  and  there  is  differ 
ences.  Your  grandmama  and  your  aunt  is  born  in 
another  station  from  me,  and  so  is  you;  only  when  your 
po'r  ma  died,  I  'ad  charge  of  you,  and  brought  you  through 
your  teething,  and  loved  you  for  your  pretty  ways  and  good 
'eart,  and  your  own  dear  sake.  But  Miss  Elizabeth, 
dear,  God  has  put  the  rich  man  in  'is  castle,  and  the 
po'r  man  at  his  gate,  and  not  all  the  learning  in  all  the 
world  is  going  to  alter  it,  till  we're  all  equal  in  'eaven. 
Though  where  your  dear  grandma  and  aunt  is  going  to 
sit  I  dunno,  for  they'll  never  like  to  be  huddled  up  with 
servants,  and  even  less  respectable  folk,  as  doesn't  know 
their  place  as  well  as  they;  but  God  knows  best,  and 
'E'll  take  care  it  comes  out  right. 


32  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Elizabeth  was  still  a  child  when  a  strong  influence, 
destined  to  mould  her  future,  came  into  her  life. 

The  Mill  Farm  was  a  long  white  building,  set  a  little 
back  from  the  high  road.  A  small  wooden  bridge, 
painted  white,  crossed  the  stream,  which  had  formerly 
worked  the  waterwheel  now  standing  idle.  A  gate  led 
to  the  house,  and  a  brick  path  crossed  the  garden,  gay 
with  the  flowers  that  bees  love  best.  It  was  planted 
with  no  symmetry  or  scheme  of  color,  but  with  splendid 
profusion,  each  flower  loved  for  its  own  beauty,  not  for 
the  sake  of  forming  a  geometrical  design.  The  anemones, 
mignonette  and  carnations,  and  sweet-scented  stocks, 
blue  lupins  and  delphiniums,  hollyhocks  and  michaelmas 
daisies,  succeeded  each  other  with  the  seasons,  and  roses 
bloomed  there,  it  is  said,  longer  and  later  than  anywhere 
in  the  neighborhood.  It  was  a  garden  that  was  loved 
and  tended,  and  such  fostering  care  is  always  to  be  recog 
nized. 

Mrs.  Fane  lived  among  her  flowers.  She  was  a  tall, 
pale  woman,  with  delicate  health.  The  care  of  her 
garden,  and  the  love  of  her  son,  were  the  joys  of  her 
existence. 

Few  people  called  at  the  Mill  Farm.  The  general 
verdict  was  that  they  were  odd,  with  strange  ideas;  in 
fact,  it  had  been  whispered  that  they  were  socialists — a 
word  that  conveyed  little  to  the  country  people,  but  it 
had  a  dangerous  sound,  and  it  was  always  best  to  be  on 
the  safe  side  in  making  acquaintances.  Moreover,  Mrs. 
Fane  rarely  went  to  church,  and  her  son  never;  so  the 
rector,  after  a  first  visit,  called  no  more.  The  owner  of 
the  Mill  Farm  was,  however,  wholly  unaware  that  the 
question  as  to  the  desirability  of  admitting  her  into  county 
circles  had  ever  been  discussed.  She  looked  upon  the 
remoteness  of  the  place  as  one  of  its  chief  charms  and 
the  absence  of  visitors  as  a  distinct  gain. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  33 

She  had  been  left  a  widow,  after  a  life  of  unbroken 
happiness  with  one  of  the  most  promising  scientists 
of  his  day,  a  man  who  was  just  rising  to  eminence,  when 
the  grasp  of  death  held  him  back  from  fame.  One  boy 
was  left,  and  his  care  and  education  became  the  passion 
of  her  life.  Her  means  were  very  limited,  but  by  the 
strictest  economy  she  managed  to  give  him  an  excellent 
education,  and  finally,  by  the  aid  of  a  scholarship,  to  send 
him  to  Cambridge.  His  success  at  the  university  was 
her  reward,  his  subsequent  career  her  one  anxiety. 

Michael  Fane  was  a  man  who  should  make  a  mark. 
This  was  reiterated  by  tutors  and  friends;  but,  they 
told  her  constantly,  the  very  strength  of  his  character 
led  him  to  take  views  on  the  questions  in  which  he  was 
interested  which  were  often  out  of  all  proportion,  and  he 
was  in  danger  of  injuring  his  future  by  his  uncompro 
mising  zeal. 

At  first  the  career  of  a  clergyman  appealed  to  him. 
It  would  bring  him  into  contact  with  the  people  and 
open  to  wider  spheres  of  influence.  But  as  his  opinions 
crystallized  he  felt  that  it  was  his  love  for  the  social  side 
of  the  work  which  prompted  his  choice,  and  that  he  did 
not  possess  the  faith  that  would  make  his  religious  teach 
ing  of  any  value,  and  he  wrote  to  tell  his  mother  that  he 
could  not  conscientiously  take  Orders.  This  decision  was 
a  severe  disappointment  to  her.  She  had  hoped  to 
hold  her  son  in  a  settled  life  and  definite  work,  but  when 
once  he  determined  to  abandon  the  idea  she  never  referred 
to  it  again,  and  left  him  free  to  make  a  new  choice. 

He  finally  decided  to  read  for  the  bar,  and  to  live 
in  an  East  End  settlement  the  while,  where  he  could  give 
his  spare  hours  to  social  work.  His  mother  left  her  London 
house,  took  the  Mill  Farm,  and  settled  in  the  country. 

To  many  who  have  been  called  to  face  the  problem 
of  cities,  the  illusion  has  remained  that  country  places 
3 


34  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

are  not  infected  by  the  horrible  social  sickness  that  in 
fects  the  towns;  but  a  little  experience  soon  shows  that 
the  thatched,  rose-covered  cottages,  and  picturesque 
village  streets  are  too  often  but  whited  sepulchres,  hiding 
behind  fair  exteriors  the  plague  of  overcrowding,  bad 
water,  insanitary  drainage,  and  other  evils,  which  eat 
out  the  life  of  the  slum  dwellers. 

Michael,  during  his  visits  to  Ilbury,  discovered  all 
this,  and  much  more.  To  his  mind  the  hours  of  labor 
were  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  pay.  The  conditions 
under  which  the  cottages  were  held  appeared  to  him 
little  short  of  tyranny,  and  the  question  of  the  monopoly 
of  land  almost  possessed  him.  He  endeavored  to  instil 
into  the  work-people  that  spirit  of  revolt  he  believed  could 
alone  bring  about  reform;  but  he  was  met  by  apathy 
and  a  dogged  determination  to  let  things  be,  bred,  he 
believed,  of  a  deep-rooted  fear  of  the  power  that  could 
wrench  from  them  what  they  held,  and  leave  them 
stranded  in  far  worse  conditions. 

The  "neighboring  gentry,"  as  they  were  called,  held 
his  views  in  detestation,  and  looked  on  Michael  Fane 
as  a  dangerous  man,  the  more  so  as  they  recongized  his 
undoubted  ability.  But  happily  his  visits  were  short, 
and  the  business  of  his  life  kept  him  for  the  greater  part 
in  London,  so  the  process  of  "undermining"  the  people, 
as  they  called  it,  was  spasmodic. 

He  had,  however,  one  eager  disciple.  Elizabeth, 
fresh  from  school,  found  in  him  a  master,  at  whose  feet 
she  gladly  sat;  and  Mrs.  Fane,  with  her  gentle,  motherly 
ways,  was  to  the  girl  the  very  embodiment  of  tender 
understanding  and  sympathetic  womanhood. 

Elizabeth  was  but  a  child  when  first  she  formed  this 
strong  friendship.  Her  frocks  barely  reached  her  ankles; 
her  hair  was  braided  in  a  thick  long  plait.  She  was  still 
at  the  age  when  dress  makes  no  appeal,  and  it  was  a 


35 

disgrace  to  own  to  any  interest  in  personal  appearance. 
But  the  sight  of  the  little  figure  in  a  plain  blue  linen  frock 
and  shady  stsaw  hat  coming  up  the  pathway  gave  un 
mixed  pleasure  to  the  quiet  woman,  and  was  always 
welcomed  by  the  young  man  who  romped  with  her,  and 
taught  her,  and  watched  her  mental  and  physical  de 
velopment,  with  the  eager  interest  he  brought  to  everyone 
and  everything  he  cared  about. 

Mrs.  Maynell  troubled  herself  little  about  her  grand 
daughter's  pursuits;  and  Miss  Maynell  thought  it  was 
very  kind  of  Mrs.  Fane  to  take  any  interest  in  a  child  like 
Elizabeth,  for  children  were  often  troublesome  and  dif 
ficult  to  amuse.  And  so,  during  the  holidays,  the  Mill 
Farm  became  to  Elizabeth  the  one  entirely  happy  spot; 
and  later,  when  school  days  were  over,  it  was  for  a  time 
the  centre  of  her  life's  interest. 

There  is  a  strange  desire  for  change  peculiar  to  the 
young;  a  desire  which  is  almost  incomprehensible  to 
older  people,  for  to  those  who  are  sur  le  retour,  as  the 
French  so  delicately  call  it,  the  absence  of  sorrow  is  almost 
synonymous  with  happiness.  But  to  the  young,  monot 
ony  is  misfortune. 

Elizabeth  was  no  exception.  She  would  awake  after 
dreamless  sleep  to  perfect  health;  to  the  daily  fortune 
she  inherited  with  life,  the  sun  that  shone  in  the  heavens, 
the  birds  that  sang  in  the  hedgerows,  the  devotion  of 
Nanny,  the  love  of  her  friends  at  the  Mill  Farm,  the 
interest  of  her  studies,  the  faithful  affection  of  the  village 
folk;  and  yet  she  often  looked  longingly  away  to  the 
horizon,  wondering,  with  the  strange  boldness  of  youth, 
what  the  future  would  bring.  She  was  not  discontented; 
it  never  occurred  to  her  she  was  unhappy,  only  the  world 
was  wide,  and  the  little  corner  in  which  she  lived  was 
very  small.  What  key  would  open  the  gates  of  life  and 
lead  her  out  into  its  possibilities? 


36  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"If  only  something  would  happen,"  she  used  to  say. 

The  uneventful  days  were,  however,  destined  to  be 
broken  by  the  arrival  of  a  guest  at  the  great  house  of  the 
village,  known  as  Ilbury  Hall,  a  dignified  building  designed 
in  the  sober  period  of  William  and  Mary,  square  and 
substantial,  with  a  fine  roof  and  overhanging  eaves,  to 
which  the  architect  had  given  a  prodigal  sweep,  creating 
thereby  an  undefined  beauty  of  outline.  The  square 
windows  looked  silently  out  on  the  wide  stretch  of  park 
coward  the  west,  twinkling  at  sunset  like  the  eyes  of  some 
old  veteran  or  past  beauty  recalling  their  former  triumphs, 
and  then  growing  gray  and  still  again  as  the  light  faded. 

Old  Mr.  Errington,  the  present  owner  of  Ilbury,  an 
estate  of  some  ten  thousand  acres,  of  which  his  family 
had  been  possessed  for  generations,  had  spent  his  sum 
mers  in  London,  attending  to  the  affairs  of  his  bank 
in  the  mornings,  and  spent  his  evenings  in  the  House, 
where  he  usually  slept  while  others  managed  the  affairs 
of  his  country.  But  lately  he  had  given  up  his  seat  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  and  his  bank  saw  him  no  more. 

With  tottering  steps  the  old  man  was  hastening  to 
ward  the  end  of  his  long  journey,  but  the  devotion  which 
had  absorbed  him  through  the  years  was  the  only  thing 
which  still  remained  strong  and  unbroken;  and  day  after 
day  he  leaned  over  his  study  table,  taking  endless  notes, 
and  making  innumerable  little  sums  upon  his  blotting 
paper,  with  trembling  hands  caressing  the  list  of  his 
investments,  or  turning  the  pages  of  his  bank  pass-books, 
as  an  old  book-lover  might  reverently  turn  the  page  of 
some  priceless  manuscript. 

The  house  was  bleak  and  dreary.  The  brown  holland 
covers  had  not  been  removed  for  years.  The  great 
chandeliers  hung  in  their  drab  shrouds  from  the  ceiling. 
The  carpets  were  faded  and  worn  into  little  brown  paths, 
where  feet  had  most  often  passed. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  37 

Old  Mrs.  Errington,  meek  and  deaf,  sat  in  what  was 
called  the  boudoir,  a  room  made  hideous  by  sham  painted 
oak  of  a  bilious  yellow  brown,  and  a  flock  paper,  a  very 
nightmare  of  red,  green  and  gold,  a  legacy  of  the  taste 
of  the  fifties.  She  often  wished  that  her  husband  would 
allow  her  "to  do  up  the  room,"  and  visions  of  white  and 
gold  papers  with  a  border  of  pink  roses  came  to  her,  but 
the  flock  paper  still  remained  untouched.  No  one 
remembered  any  part  of  the  house  having  been  reno 
vated  or  altered  in  the  old  banker's  time. 

At  the  end  of  this  summer  he  decided  to  send  for 
his  nephew  and  his  heir,  Eric  Errington.  It  had  hurt 
his  pride,  that  he  had  no  son  to  succeed  to  his  property 
and  money,  more  than  his  heart.  All  the  grief  was 
reserved  to  the  little  lady  who  sat  alone  in  the  boudoir, 
who  ordered  his  dinner  for  forty  years,  and  now  helped  the 
trained  nurse,  as  far  as  he  allowed  her,  to  take  care  of  him. 

Eric  was  in  Scotland  when  he  received  his  uncle's 
summons.  He  had  rarely  met  the  old  man,  and  felt 
no  compunction  in  answering  that  he  would  go  to  him 
as  soon  as  the  grouse-shooting  was  over.  Having  taken 
his  fill  of  sport,  when  the  birds  got  wild  and  the  weather 
bad  he  put  himself  into  the  train,  and  early  one  morning 
found  himself  in  a  dog-cart,  travelling  through  the  misty 
lanes  between  dripping  hedges  to  Ilbury  Hall. 

A  turn  in  the  road,  and  the  gray  stone  piers  of  the 
gates  rose  gaunt  and  grim  against  the  line  of  green  grass 
which  divided  the  entrance  from  the  highway.  The 
leopards,  stiff  and  upright,  mounted  guard  on  either  side, 
as  they  stood  for  two  hundred  years,  and  the  iron  gates, 
rusty  with  age,  creaked  slowly  back  as  the  man  dis 
mounted  to  open  them.  Somehow,  as  they  shut  again 
with  slow,  grating  sound,  Eric  felt  a  new  era  was  begin 
ning;  that,  with  the  closing  gates,  new  circumstances 
were  opening  round  him. 


38  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

The  great  avenue,  dark  with  heavy  foliage  of  the  beech 
trees,  already  turning  to  gold,  was  dim  and  solemn;  and 
then,  as  they  emerged  again  into  the  light,  the  house 
lay  stretched  across  the  garden,  gray  and  green  and  brown, 
the  slate  roof  darkened  with  lichen,  the  massive  chim 
neys,  sharply  drawn  against  the  dull  sky,  and  the  faint 
line  of  smoke  curling  upward,  the  only  visible  sign  of 
habitation. 

It  had  never  struck  him  as  so  fine  before;  and  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold  he  felt  that  there  rose  within  him 
a  new  sense  of  pride  which  he  had  not  known.  This 
great  inheritance  was  a  goodly  thing  on  which  he  had 
never  really  reckoned,  but  which  was  now  almost  within 
his  reach. 

"Mr.  Errington  is  not  down  yet,"  said  the  butler, 
"but  your  breakfast  is  ready,  sir." 

He  led  the  way  across  the  slippery  polished  floor  of 
the  long  hall  into  the  low  dark  dining-room.  Oak 
panels  covered  the  walls,  disfigured  by  varnish,  but 
the  full-length  portraits  by  Reynolds  and  Romney  gave 
a  dignity  that  no  defacing  hand  could  destroy. 

The  butler,  after  supplying  his  wants,  left  the  young 
man  to  his  meal.  The  buhl  clock  ticked  silently.  It 
was  the  only  sound  that  broke  a  silence  which  bid  fair 
to  rival  the  stillness  that  sends  men  demented  on  the  ice 
fields  in  the  great  North-West.  The  hearth  looked 
deserted,  swept  and  garnished  for  the  summer,  with 
shining  blackened  grate,  barred  with  forbidding  paper. 

The  young  man  who  sat  there  eating  eggs  and  bacon 
presented  a  strange  contrast,  in  his  exuberant  youth 
and  strength,  to  the  gloomy  surroundings,  with  his  clear 
blue  eyes  and  bronzed  cheeks,  a  slight  fair  moustache, 
and  a  thin  firm  line  of  mouth,  short  glossy  hair  and  broad, 
well-made  limbs;  he  was  a  picture  of  virile  life  in  that 
silent,  tomb-like  house. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  39. 

He  finished  his  breakfast,  stretched  himself,  and 
then,  throwing  open  the  window,  he  stepped  out.  Light 
ing,  a  cigaiette,  he  walked  down  the  long  terraced  path 
upon  which  the  lower  windows  opened,  and  paused  for 
a  moment  when  he  came  to  the  library,  where  he  knew 
his  uncle  usually  sat.  He  did  not  expect  to  find  him 
there,  as  he  heard  he  was  not  yet  dressed;  and  he  wras 
startled  to  see  a  bent  figure  standing  in  the  window,  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  on  a  gardener  who  was  sweeping  the 
golden  leaves.  The  whitened  lips  moved  slowly,  and 
as  the  man  worked  a  smile  lit  up  the  faded  eyes,  set  in  a 
network  of  wrinkles,  and  the  trembling  hands  made 
continual  motion,  as  though  he  were  getting  together  a 
heap  of  scattered  money. 

"Shovel  'em  up,  shovel  'em  up,"  murmured  the  old 
man  continuously;  and,  as  the  gardener  swept,  his  bird- 
like  claws  grasped  some  invisible  heap. 

Eric  stood  and  watched  him  for  some  seconds,  until 
he  saw  the  door  of  the  room  open  and  a  nurse  enter, 
evidently  to  tell  him  of  his  nephew's  arrival.  Then 
the  smile  faded,  the  old  hands  dropped,  and  he  turned 
from  the  window. 

A  few  moments  later  Eric  was  ushered  into  his  uncle's 
presence.  The  nurse  was  still  in  the  background.  Mr. 
Errington  sat  at  the  writing-table.  He  turned  slowly, 
and  said : 

"How  d'ye  do,  Eric?  Glad  you  could  spare  a  day 
or  two  for  us.  Sport  good ?  Too  good  to  leave  sooner"  ? 
he  added,  with  a  bitter  little  laugh. 

He  asked  how  many  birds  they  had  bagged?  Were 
there  plenty  this  year?  Was  the  moor  extensive?  He 
remembered  that  years  ago  he  had  shot  grouse  in  York 
shire,  but  he  added  that  he  had  taken  few  holidays. 
"Lucky  the  young  men  can  get  the  time  nowadays; 
I  had  no  time  for  sport.  I  was  grinding  at  my  desk, 


40  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

grinding  day  in  day  out,  but  I've  made  my  pile,"  he  said, 
as  he  put  his  trembling  hands  together  as  though  he  had 
something  precious  between  them. 

"I'm  glad,  uncle,  to  come;  sorry  I  couldn't  leave 
before.  Two  or  three  fellows  and  I  had  taken  a  moor, 
and  I  couldn't  chuck  it  till  the  shooting  was  over." 

The  younger  man  looked  uncomfortable  and  out  of 
place. 

"I've  got  a  little  business  to  go  through  with  you," 
said  the  banker;  "not  that  there's  any  hurry.  I'm 
good  for  a  long  time,  young  man,  I'll  tell  you  that." 
And  he  looked  at  Eric  under  his  shaggy  white  eyebrows 
as  though  he  dared  him  to  contradict  it. 

"  Jolly  glad,"  said  Eric.  "  Of  course,  uncle,  we  needn't 
talk  of  that;  you're  game  for  years."  But  as  he  said  the 
words  he  knew  they  were  the  lies  the  men  tell  to  the  old 
and  the  sick. 

"Yes,  yes,  years,"  said  the  banker.  "Things  are 
bad  now,  but  by  gad!  I've  got  investments  it  would 
puzzle  a  wiser  head  to  beat;  a  combination  as  devilish 
ingenious  as  anything  in  the  city." 

Eric  sat  silent.  He  was  not  sensitive,  but  the  scene 
jarred  upon  him,  and  he  longed  to  be  out  in  the  open 
air,  away  from  the  ugly  atmosphere  of  that  room. 

"I  shall  weary  you  now,  uncle.  I'll  go  out  a  bit, 
and  come  to  you  presently."  He  rose  to  go.  The 
nurse  followed  him  out. 

"Mr.  Errington's  a  little  weak  in  his  mind  now  and 
then,"  she  said.  "He  has  all  sorts  of  fancies,  as  you 
have  seen;  he  is  always  thinking  he's  at  the  bank,  and 
that  gold  is  being  counted.  Old  people  have  all  sorts 
of  whims,"  she  said,  smiling  a  hard,  frosty  little  smile. 
"But  he's  wonderfully  strong." 

Eric  turned  away,  out  into  the  garden,  anything  to 
be  rid  of  the  impression  of  that  old  man,  chained  to 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  41 

his  sordid  life,  and  yet  bound  to  set  out  on  the  long  journey 
men  take  empty-handed.  He  tried  to  forget  it,  but  the 
remembrance  was  strangely  recurrent. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  The  village  church  stood 
almost  within  the  grounds.  The  little  gray  steeple 
was  the  only  evidence  to  the  family  at  Ilbury  that  there 
was  any  other  life  than  the  dull  monotony  of  the  present 
every-day  existence,  and  the  absorbing  passion  of  making 
money. 

Regularly  every  Sunday  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Errington 
had  for  years  past  been  found  in  their  accustomed  places 
at  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  when  they  were  at 
the  Hall.  The  rector  always  spoke  approvingly  of  the 
old  banker.  His  subscriptions  \vere  not  large,  but  they 
never  varied.  Every  Sunday  his  half-a-crown  was 
solemnly  deposited  in  the  plate,  not  because  it  had  any 
relative  proportion  to  his  income,  but  because  it  was 
an  appropriate  coin.  A  shilling  would  be  too  little; 
eighteen  pence  was  an  unsatisfactory  compromise.  So 
years  ago  he  had  settled  that  half-a-crown  was  to  be 
his  Sunday  offering,  and  he  had  stuck  to  his  resolve, 
as  indeed  he  did  to  everything  he  had  once  settled. 

His  regularity  at  morning  service  was  also  looked 
upon  with  clerical  approval;  and  his  almost  fierce  de 
termination  that  whatever  he  went  through  in  order 
to  support  the  church  should  not  be  borne  alone,  which 
made  him  inexorable  in  his  demands  that  every  member 
of  his  household,  and  all  his  employees,  should  attend, 
likewise  was  much  applauded. 

"Such  an  excellent  example,"  said  the  clergyman; 
and  he  was  often  quoted  in  clerical  circles  as  one  who 
earned  for  himself  respect  and  admiration. 

The  family  pew  was  an  antiquarian  curiosity;  it 
occupied  a  gallery  to  itself  under  a  carved  canopy,  en 
riched  with  the  Errington  family  arms.  Faded  red 


42  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

curtains  screened  the  exalted  worshippers  from  the 
vulgar  gaze.  But  the  old  banker's  devotions  were 
seriously  interfered  with  on  account  of  the  zealous  watch 
he  kept  that  none  of  his  hirelings  should  be  missing. 
The  red  curtains  were  drawn  aside,  the  clang  of  the 
brass  rings  echoing  noisily  through  the  church,  and  the 
old  head  bent  over  the  gallery  while  he  scanned  every 
pew.  Occasionally  an  absentee  wras  detected,  and  he 
would  cross  over  to  where  old  Mrs.  Errington  bowed 
meekly  over  her  large  prayer-book,  and  in  a  loud  whisper 
would  say: 

"Maria,  Mrs.  Humphreys  is  not  in  church;  and, 
so  far  as  I  can  see,  Henry  is  not  there  either.  What 
does  that  mean?  I'm  damned  if  I  will  allow  it!" 

"My  dear,"  whispered  Mrs.  Errington  meekly,  "it 
can't  be  helped.  Mrs.  Humphreys  is  just  confined, 
and  he  is  staying  to  look  after  her." 

"No  reason,  no  reason  at  all,"  in  rather  louder  ac 
cents.  "See  he  is  here  next  Sunday;  and  she  ought 
to  be  back  Sunday  after  that.  Lazy  hounds!  they'll 
always  shirk  if  they  can;  but  I'll  have  my  orders  attended 
to,  by  God!  I  will."  And  then  he  would  cross  to  the 
pew  and  resume  his  devotions. 

The  arrival  of  Mr.  Eric  had  been  the  topic  of  con 
versation  through  the  week.  People  wondered  what 
sort  of  man  Mr.  Errington's  heir  would  be.  The  men 
on  the  estate  discussed  possibilities  in  low  voices  at 
their  work,  "For  walls  have  ears,"  they  said,  and  a 
man  who  ventured  to  criticise  the  reigning  landlord 
would,  as  likely  as  not,  lose  his  work  and  his  cottage. 
So  they  would  point  meaningly  to  the  Hall. 

"Be  the  young  squire  cum?" 

"Cum  yesterday  forenoon.  A  seed  'im  droive  in 
the  great  gates  as  a  was  cumin'  'ome  ter  breakfast;  a 
loikly  looking  yung  mon." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  43 

"Waal,  toime'll  show  what  'e  be  loike,  when  we've 
buried  the  ole  mon."  And  they  fell  to  work  again  in 
silence,  with  the  reserve  natural  to  those  who  daily 
recognize  the  power  another  holds  over  their  well-being. 

In  the  village,  where  the  women  gathered  for  their 
weekly  shopping,  discretion  was  less  apparent.  Mrs. 
Williams  had  seen  him  when  she  was  taking  the  ser 
vants'  washing  to  the  Hall. 

"I  was  just  a  crossing  the  courtyard,"  she  told  her 
interested  listeners,  "when  I  seed  a  young  mon  cumin' 
acrass,  taall  and  foine  'e  was,  and  very  'andsome,  to 
my  oiye,  at  any  rate.  I  made  ma  dooty  to  'im,  and  'e 
touched  'is  cap  for  arl  the  world  as  if  a'd  bin  a  lady; 
quite  the  gen'leman  'e  was." 

"Different  from  'is  uncle,"  said  a  sour-looking  old 
woman;  "none'll  be  sorry  when  'is  toime  cums,  and 
the  old  squire's  gone  to  meet  'is  Judge.  I  siy,  there'll 
be  a  surprise  for  'im  one  day,  and  none  too  pleasant." 

Mrs.  Bitton's  feelings  were  well  known.  She  had  a 
special  grudge  against  the  squire  for  sending  her  grand 
son  to  a  reformatory  for  trapping  rabbits  on  the  waste 
piece  of  ground  known  as  Scrubbs'  Common. 

"Waal,  a  'ope  as  the  young  mon'll  'ave  loong  loife, 
and  a  good  wife  and  a  'appy  'ome,  an'  do  well  by  the 
po'r  folks,"  said  a  rosy,  round-faced  woman,  tucking 
a  loaf  of  bread  under  her  arm,  and  shouldering  her 
heavy  basket.  "That's  wot  a  'ope." 

In  the  tap-room  the  young  man's  arrival  was  fully 
discussed  on  Saturday  night  by  the  men  who  gathered 
there  for  a  pipe  and  a  glass  of  ale,  as  they  sat  round 
on  the  hard  benches  in  the  smoky  atmosphere.  Had 
anyone  seen  him?  Yes,  the  man  who  drove  him,  drop 
ped  in,  and  gave  much  the  same  verdict — a  gentleman, 
an'  no  mistake. 

"As  noice  a  man,  I  should  judge,  as  ever  sat  be'ind 


44  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

a  'orse.  Tarked  very  affably  aboot  the  ole  mare  as  I 
was  drivin' ;  asked  'ow  many  'orses  we  kep'  ?  A  tole 
'im  straight  outright.  A  says,  'orses  we  don't  keep 
sir;  crocks  they  is — isn't  one  on  'em's  got  fower  legs. 
The  pair  'as  got  aboot  fower  sound  legs  between  'em. 
'E  larfed  'earty,  an'  'e  says:  'Well,  I  da'resay  you're 
not  arsked  to  bucket  'em  aboot  the  country,'  'e  says. 
Nice  free  young  mon,  I  found  'im." 

Then  their  talk  wandered  from  the  merits  of  the 
heir  to  favorite  local  grievances,  and  although  com 
parisons  are  odious,  they  were  freely  drawn  by  men 
accustomed  to  the  task,  between  old  Mr.  Errington 
and  Lord  Oxendon,  who  owned  the  adjoining  estate. 
John  Miller,  the  wheelright,  and  Stevens,  the  black 
smith,  went  over  the  old  ground;  they  had  travelled 
the  same  road  some  scores  of  times,  but  their  audience 
did  not  weary. 

''It's  this  'ere  ready  mooney  business  as  is  our  ruin," 
said  the  blacksmith,  as  he  knocked  his  pipe  against 
the  edge  of  the  seat.  "If  the  old  lord  'ad  be'aved  as 
the  squoir  does  where  would  we  arl  a  bin,  d'ye  think? 
Why,  I've  shod  for  the  ole  lord  for  twenty  years,  an' 
'is  bill  'as  roon  on  mebbe  sevin  years  at  a  toime.  There's 
never  bin  noo  countin'  'orse  by  'orse,  it's  joost  roon  on, 
an'  thin  a  sent  in  a  statement,  as  the  agint  caals  it,  an'  in 
coourse  a  toime  the  mooney's  come,  but  this  yer  fidgety 
wiys  wi'  mounting  bills,  and  what  not,  is  ruin  to  'ard 
workin'  men.  It's  this  gite  yer  mended,  and  it's  this 
lock  yer  done,  an'  piy  so  mooch  an'  no  more,  'ow's  a 
mon  ter  mike  a  livin',  a  ast  yer?" 

"Yer  right,"  said  the  wheelwright.  "Nua'll  joost 
giv'  yer  an  instance  o'  wrhat  it  means.  His  lardship 
sent  'is  little  brown  cart  ter  me  ter  put  new  spokes  in 
the  wheels.  'E  did  some  fower  years  ago.  A  did  'is 
job,  an'  a  meets  'is  lardship  in  the  North  Road,  an  'e 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  45 

stops,  an'  'e  says,  'Miller,'  'e  says,  'yer  did  that  job 
well,'  'e  says.  'This  yer  little  trap  roons  as  well  as  ef 
it  'ad  just  come  out  o'  the  coach-builder's  yeard.'  'E 
never  arst  for  no  bill  ner  nothink,  an'  o'  course  I  weren't 
a-goin'  tcr  trouble  'im,  an'  three  years  arter  oi  sent  the 
agint  the  bill  for  six  pun  ten  shillin's,  an'  a  year  arter  that 
a  got  the  mooney  joost  as  right  as  can  be.  Th'ole  squoire, 
'e  wants  'is  ole  dog-cart  doon  oup.  There  wasn't  a 
spinter  o'  difference  wot  a  done  ter  the  two.  A  sent  it 
baack  to  the  staible;  not  twelve  hours  aterwards,  doon 
cums  Mr.  McEwen  joost  as  nasty  as  possible.  'Wher's 
yer  bill  ? '  A  gives  it  to  'im,  same  as  a  give  it  to  'is  lardship. 
Dooun  'e  cums  again,  says  the  old  squoire  was  a-tremblin' 
with  rage.  'Take  the  spokes  out  agin,  or  tak'  a  pound.' 
Mean,  a  caal  it,  damned  mean,  takin'  bread  out  o'  folks' 
mouths.  It's  these  mooney-makin'  ways  that's  out  o' 
place  wi'  a  mon  in  'is  persition." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  assent.  A  few  more  instances 
of  the  difference  between  the  two  landowners,  and  then 
the  talk  fell  to  the  prices  at  a  neighboring  sale,  and 
wandered  away  from  the  old  man  and  the  new  comer. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  this  particular  Sunday  every  pew  was  filled.  Peo 
ple  came  early  to  church  with  a  pleasant  feeling  that 
something  new  was  in  store  for  them,  and  that  all 
the  week  a  topic  of  conversation  and  a  source  of  con 
jecture  would  be  provided. 

The  second  pew  of  importance  belonged  to  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Maynell.  It  was  of  far  more  modest  proportions 
than  the  squire's,  and  beyond  the  fact  that  it  gained 
distinction  by  facing  another  way  from  the  ordinary 
seats,  it  was  on  a  level  with  them  under  the  gallery  near 
the  pulpit.  The  old  lady  rarely  attended  church,  and 
Miss  Maynell  usually  occupied  the  seat  alone;  but  to 
day  a  fly  had  been  ordered,  and  Mrs.  Maynell,  draped 
in  a  heavy  black  silk  mantle  and  a  bonnet  with  a  tuft 
of  black  feathers,  tottered  on  the  arm  of  her  daughter 
into  church,  a  fact .  which  gave  added  importance  to 
the  occasion. 

Elizabeth  had  long  ago  purchased  the  privilege  of 
sitting  apart  by  the  fact  that  she  taught  in  the  Sunday 
School,  and  on  this  particular  Sunday  she  followed  the 
children  as  usual,  as  they  clattered  into  the  side  aisle 
and  took  their  places,  the  girls,  after  hasty  devotions, 
casting  curious  glances  behind  them,  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  gallery  where  the  great  folk  sat,  then  twisting  and 
wriggling,  brushing  back  their  wiry  hair,  which  had 
just  been  released  from  its  prison  of  plaits  or  Hinde's 
curlers.  The  boys  more  placid,  were  chiefly  concerned 
to  pass  bullseyes  and  humbugs  to  each  other,  and  con 
sume  them,  without  detection.  Great,  therefore,  was 

46 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  47 

the  consternation  when,  with  the  opening  sentences 
of  the  service,  the  red  curtains  were  drawn  back  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Errington  sat  alone  in  their  accustomed 
places.  What  could  have  happened? 

Mrs.  Hancock,  the  dressmaker,  who  held  views  which 
were  represented  by  the  publication  called  "The  Prot 
estants'  Challenge,"  which  she  always  placed  on  the 
table  in  her  fitting-room,  felt  terrible  misgivings.  Could 
the  young  man  be  a  Catholic  or  an  atheist?  It  would 
be  disastrous  if  it  were  so.  She  was  almost  certain  she 
had  heard  something  to  his  discredit,  but  she  could  not 
remember  what  it  was  or  where  she  had  heard  it. 

The  young  ladies  from  the  Hill  Farm,  who  had  re- 
trimmed  their  picture  hats,  realized  that  sense  of  flatness 
which  usually  accompanies  disappointed  anticipation. 
Even  old  Mrs.  Maynell  asked  her  daughter  if  young  Mr. 
Errington  was  in  church,  as  she  could  not  see  a  third  figure. 

But  disappointment  was  to  give  place  to  entire  satis 
faction,  for  during  the  Psalms  a  side  door  opened  and 
a  young  man,  dressed  in  a  tweed  suit,  entered  a  pew 
at  the  end  of  the  church,  bowed  his  smooth,  glossy  head 
for  a  moment,  and  then  stood  up,  tall  and  square,  among 
the  worshippers.  A  flutter  ran  through  the  congregation. 
He  had  gone  into  a  free  seat  and  was  sitting  next  old 
Marty,  the  carrier's  widow,  a  seat  never  occupied  except 
by  village  folk.  Eric,  perfectly  unconscious  of  any 
comment,  opened  no  prayer-book,  but  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  looked  round  the  church.  It  all  seemed 
to  him  very  primitive  and  humdrum. 

"Good  old  souls,  I  dare  say,  browsing  here  like  their 
own  cattle,  never  seeing  anyone  or  anything,"  he  thought. 
Then  there  came  before  him  the  remembrance  that 
some  day  they  would  be  his  dependents,  and  he  the  rich 
man  who  would  hold  the  power  of  the  place  in  his  hands. 
What  would  he  do?  Of  course  he  would  be  kind;  he 


48  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

wanted  to  be  liked.  He  would  keep  hounds,  and  have 
big  meets  at  the  Hall.  How  much  money  would  he 
want  to  settle  his  bills?  What  would  hounds  tcost? 
Whereabouts  could  he  build  the  kennels? 

He  sat  down  mechanically  as  the  first  lesson  began. 
The  clergyman  was  reading  in  a  harsh  voice  the  story 
of  Jonah,  the  cowardly  crew  and  the  great  fish.  He 
began  to  look  over  the  congregation  again.  Presently 
his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  figure  of  a  girl  wholly 
unlike  the  rest  of  the  worshippers.  She  was  dressed 
very  simply.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  recall  what 
she  wore,  but  her  clothes  hung  with  easy  grace,  and 
the  bend  of  the  head  showed  the  pretty  points  on  the 
nape  of  the  neck,  from  which  grew  the  soft  brown  hair. 
He  waited  for  the  head  to  turn,  interested  to  know  whether 
the  face  was  in  keeping  with  the  charming  line  of  the 
white  neck  and  of  the  willowy  figure. 

A  fidgety  child  gave  him  his  opportunity,  and  he 
saw  an  oval  face  and  dark  eyes,  with  a  curiously  ap 
pealing  look,  as  Elizabeth  half  rose  from  her  seat  to 
rebuke  the  boy,  and  as  she  turned  their  eyes  met.  The 
light  of  the  body  is  the  eye.  There  is  at  times  a  curious 
sense  of  sudden  recognition,  not  of  any  previous  ac 
quaintance,  but  of  subtle  affinity  hard  to  define. 

Elizabeth  looked  away  at  once.  She  was  annoyed 
at  having  caught  sight  of  Errington.  She  held  very 
strong  views  as  to  the  attitude  of  mind  she  wished  to 
maintain  in  church.  It  was  one  of  her  chief  reasons 
for  desiring  to  leave  the  family  pew.  She  wanted  to  feel 
alone,  away  from  the  associations  of  her  perplexing  life. 

The  careful  observance  as  to  the  conduct  of  each 
member  of  a  family,  common  in  the  Church  of  Eng 
land,  is  unfortunate  and  embarrassing.  In  Roman 
Catholic  countries  devotion  is  not  regarded  as  strange 
or  priggish,  but  with  us,  if  a  girl  kneels  longer  than  is 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  49 

customary  the  matter  is  gravely  discussed  by  her  elders, 
and  she  is  supposed  to  be  either  morbid,  or  to  desire 
to  seek  spiritual  notoriety;  and  if  a  boy  should  show 
such  proclivities,  it  would  be  considered  abnormal. 

Elizabeth  tried  hard  to  banish  from  her  mind  the 
remembrance  of  those  questioning  eyes;  and  after  the 
service  was  over  followed  her  charges  down  the  aisle, 
determined  to  look  in  the  opposite  direction,  although 
she  felt  Errington  was  watching  her  intently.  The 
children  had  almost  passed  the  place  where  he  sat,  when 
a  boy,  desirous  of  escaping  as  quickly  as  possible  the 
restraint  of  the  slow  procession,  dropped  a  prayer-book 
as  he  brushed  past  Errington's  pew.  The  young  man 
bent  down  quickly  and  picked  it  up.  Then,  waiting 
till  Elizabeth  passed,  he  rose  and  gave  it  to  her,  saying: 

"  One  of  your  boys  dropped  this,  I  think." 

She  looked  round.  She  would  have  given  anything 
to  have  appeared  indifferent,  but  the  color  came  into 
her  face;  she  took  the  book,  and  muttered  her  thanks, 
and  left  the  church  with  a  strong  feeling  of  annoyance, 
quite  disproportionate  to  the  trifling  incident. 

"I'm  sorry  I  had  no  top  hat,  uncle,  so  I  could  not  go 
with  you  to  church,"  said  Eric  at  lunch. 

The  matter  had  been  gravely  discussed  before  church 
with  Mrs.  Errington,  and  it  had  been  finally  settled 
that  the  absence  of  regulation  dress  barred  the  entrance 
to  the  family  pew.  She  was  an  undecided  woman, 
never  quite  sure  of  anything,  and  when  Eric  consulted 
her  she  wavered. 

"Dear  Eric — I  don't  know — your  dear  uncle  always 
does,  and  my  brothers,  when  they  come  here.  It's 
generally  supposed — but  still,  you're  only  passing  on  your 
way  to  London — still,  perhaps  it's  best — it  might  seem 
like  disrespect  to  the  church,  or  to  your  dear  uncle — I'm 
sure  I  don't  really  know  what  to  advise." 

4 


50  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

The  outcome,  however,  was,  as  we  have  seen,  that 
Eric  risked  neither  Divine  nor  human  displeasure,  and 
worshipped  in  the  free  seats.  He  was  anxious  to  as 
certain  Elizabeth's  name,  and  yet  for  some  reason  he 
did  not  ask  the  question  directly,  but  preferred  to  take 
a  circuitous  route. 

"Who  was  the  old  lady  in  the  pew?"  he  asked  his 
aunt. 

"Mrs.  Maynell,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Maynell,  sister  of 
Lord  Oxenham,"  said  Mrs.  Errington,  "and  her  daughter, 
Miss  Maynell,  was  with  her.  She  has  a  grand-daughter, 
a  young  girl  who  lives  with  them,  the  late  Major  May- 
nell's  only  child.  They  have  brought  her  up,  and  have 
been  very  good  to  her." 

"She  was  not  in  church?"  he  queried. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  was,"  said  Mrs.  Errington;  "she — 
well,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  young  girls  are  so  odd, 
everything  is  topsy-turvy  nowadays.  She  sits  with 
the  school  children,  I'm  sure  I  can't  think  why.  When 
I  was  young  my  poor  dear  father  would  never  have 
allowed  it.  Indeed,  we  never  should  have  wished  it. 
The  schoolmistress,  it  seems  to  me,  is  paid — but  I  don't 
know — everything  is  so  different." 

So  Eric  gained  the  information  he  wanted,  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  smoking  cigarettes  and  wonder 
ing  how  he  could  arrange  to  see  Elizabeth  again.  He 
lay  on  his  back  under  one  of  the  big  cedar  trees  where 
the  peacocks  roosted.  They  were  screaming  in  the 
afternoon  sunshine;  their  harsh  discordant  voices  were 
said  to  betoken  rain,  but  the  golden  light  shining  through 
the  dark  branches  of  the  big  tree  seemed  to  defy  the 
omen. 

He  saw  himself  meeting  Elizabeth  in  the  fields,  re 
leasing  her  favorite  dog  from  a  trap,  saving  her  from 
an  infuriated  cow.  All  manner  of  adventures  passed 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  51 

in  review,  and  each  time  she  met  deliverance  at  his  hands, 
for  her  dog  or  for  herself,  with  the  same  straight,  appeal 
ing  glance  which  fascinated  him  in  the  morning.  It 
worried  him  to  be  able  to  find  no  excuse  for  seeking  her 
out  or  making  her  acquaintance.  Mrs.  Errington's 
tone  did  not  imply  intimacy  with  her  grandmother. 

At  last  he  decided  to  go  to  evening  service.  He  could 
not  remember  the  Sunday  when  he  had  even  contem 
plated  two  attendances  at  church,  but  custom  did  not 
deter  him.  He  was  not  burdened  with  scruples  as  to 
his  motives.  He  had  a  distinct  object  in  going,  and 
he  announced  his  intention  at  tea. 

The  old  man  had  gone  to  his  room;  he  was  tired, 
and  would  not  leave  it  till  dinner-time,  his  aunt  told 
him.  Evening  church  was  at  six.  Was  he  going? 
She  never  went  twice.  His  uncle  thought  once  on  Sun 
day  was  enough.  Did  he  always  go  in  the  evening? 
The  walk  was  very  nice.  She  remembered,  with  a 
little  sigh,  liking  evening  church  best  years  ago  when 
she  was  a  girl.  She  used  to  go  through  the  cornfields 
on  summer  evenings  in  Surrey. 

"My  poor  dear  mother  was  very  religious.  It  used 
to  be  very  pleasant — but,  dear  me,  it's  a  long  time  ago"; 
and  the  little  pale,  withered  face  looked  sadder  even  than 
its  wont. 

At  six  o'clock  Eric  started  across  the  park  in  the  op 
posite  direction  to  the  church.  A  low  red-brick  build 
ing,  almost  buried  among  the  trees,  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him  as  Mrs.  Maynell's  house,  and  he  walked 
leisurely  toward  it  without  any  definite  plan  of  action, 
trusting  to  luck  to  bring  him  some  pleasing  adventure. 

The  elms  were  reflecting  the  orange  and  brown  lights 
of  the  sunset  against  the  pale  evening  sky.  The  trees 
in  the  avenue  cast  long  blue  shadows  across  the  yellow 
grass,  and  the  stillness  of  an  English  Sunday  was  hold- 


52  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

ing  that  country  world  in  its  beautiful  spell.  Now  and 
then  the  distant  bark  of  a  dog  broke  the  silence,  but 
the  quiet  that  succeeded  the  sound  emphasized  the 
peace.  A  few  children  stood  near  the  gate  that  led 
into  the  lane.  They  had  been  picking  blackberries. 
Their  mouths  and  hands  were  stained  with  the  purple 
juice.  They  looked  with  wide-eyed  curiosity  at  Eric 
as  he  passed,  whispered  and  giggled,  and  then  the  desul 
tory  child-mind  asserted  itself,  and  they  fell  to  gathering 
blackberries  again,  and  forgot  what  manner  of  man 
the  stranger  was. 

The  path  to  the  manor-house  lay  across  another  field. 
A  stile  on  the  further  side  of  the  lane  showed  where  the 
white  line  followed  on  over  the  green  grass.  Eric  climbed 
the  stile  and  continued  on  his  way.  What  could  he 
do  to  ensure  his  end?  How  could  he  manage  to  meet 
her?  He  did  not  wonder  long  for,  suddenly,  coming 
straight  toward  him  out  of  the  copse  which  bordered 
the  field,  he  saw  the  slim  supple  figure  of  the  girl  who 
had  so  filled  his  mind  since  he  first  saw  her  seven  hours 
ago.  The  realization  of  his  hope  made  him  start. 

He  had  done  his  best  to  bring  about  this  event,  and 
now  that  his  plan  had  so  far  succeeded  he  felt  baffled 
to  know  what  use  he  could  make  of  his  opportunity. 
He  seemed  at  far  off  as  ever  from  attaining  his  end. 

At  that  moment  the  evening  stillness  was  broken 
by  a  clash  of  rushing,  swinging  sound,  for  the  church 
bells  took  possession  of  the  peaceful  hour,  imperious, 
insistent.  Elizabeth  came  nearer.  She  too  had  seen 
the  figure  slowly  coming  toward  her,  and  had  again 
felt  strong  self-contempt  for  the  little  flutter  of  excite 
ment  which  the  sight  brought  to  her. 

They  were  now  close  together.  He  noticed  that 
in  an  ungloved  hand  she  held  her  prayer-book,  and 
that  the  hand  was  long  and  slim.  He  stood  before 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  53 

her  on  the  narrow  pathway  and  raised  his  cap.  The 
inspiration  came  to  him  to  ask  her  if  he  was  on  the  right 
road  to  church.  Truly,  men  are  willing  to  be  counted 
fools  sometimes  to  gain  an  end,  for  the  tower  was  be 
hind  him,  and  he  knew  it  well. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  him  gravely  for  a  moment,  and 
then  the  same  strong  feeling  of  comradeship  which  had 
taken  hold  of  both  for  a  moment  in  the  morning  possessed 
them  again,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 
That  laugh  was  the  death  of  conventionality,  the  merry 
mingling  of  minds  which  is  the  gateway  of  friendship. 

"The  church,"  said  Elizabeth,  "is  there,"  pointing 
to  the  tower  behind  her.  "Do  you  not  hear  the  bells?" 

"Are  you  going?     Will  you  let  me  walk  with  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  I  have  not  been  introduced 
to  you,  like  the  man  in  the  'Bab  Ballads.'  But  I  am 
going  to  church,  and  as  you  seem  to  have  a  very  poor 
instinct  for  locality,  I  will  take  you  there,  if  you  like." 

"My  name  is  Errington,  and  you  are  Miss  Maynell, 
I  know,"  said  Eric.  "That  is  introduction  enough, 
isn't  it?  without  the  intervention  of  a  third  party!" 

That  evening  after  dinner,  when  wine  and  dessert 
were  on  the  table,  Eric  casually  mentioned  the  fact 
that  he  had  met  Elizabeth. 

"I  missed  my  way,"  he  said,  "and  as  I  met  Miss 
Maynell,  I  asked  her  the  road  to  the  church.  She  seems 
a  nice  girl.  She  was  very  kind  in  setting  me  straight." 

His  remark  led  to  no  response  from  his  uncle  or  aunt, 
but  the  rector,  who  usually  dined  at  the  Hall  on  Sunday 
night,  said: 

"She  is  a  good  girl,  but  full  of  the  most  exaggerated 
present-day  theories.  It  has  always  been  a  mystery 
to  me  how  Mrs.  Maynell,  a  lady  of  good  birth,  should 
allow  her  granddaughter  to  associate  with  people  like 
the  Fanes.  Most  extraordinarily  undesirable,  I  should  say." 


54  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"D'you  mean  those  people  who  have  come  to  the 
old  Mill  House?"  said  Mr.  Errington,  suddenly  roused. 
"That  Radical  chap  that  goes  ranting  about,  upsetting 
people,  and  stirring  them  up  to  ask  more  wages?  A 
young  blackguard,  that's  what  he  is.  Mrs.  Maynell 
must  be  mad  if  she  lets  that  girl  make  friends  like  those. 
I'd  like  to  catch  him  coming  here!  Why,  I  understand 
he  held  a  meeting  about  the  state  of  the  cottages;  said 
every  laborer  ought  to  have  at  least  three  bedrooms,  and 
a  drawing-room  and  a  piano,  I  suppose!  A  man  with 
out  a  penny  of  his  own  to  bless  himself  with  telling  land 
lords  what  they  ought  to  do — it's  unbearable.  I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is — 

And  then  the  old  man  repeated  all  he  had  said  again, 
and  lost  the  thread  of  his  argument;  the  momentary 
fire  had  burned  low  and  left  him  listless. 

"Besides,"  said  the  rector,  when  the  pause  came, 
"they  are  not  Church  people,  which  is  in  itself  objection 
able." 

"Damned  dissenters!  I  was  sure  of  it,"  muttered 
Mr.  Errington. 

The  clergyman  looked  puzzled.  He  approved  the 
sentiment,  but  deprecated  the  form  of  expression. 

"Elizabeth  seems  a  nice  girl.  I  am  sure  it  is  difficult 
to  know  what  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Errington,  "such  odd 
people  call  nowadays.  When  I  was  young  my  poor 
dear  mother  would  have  been  shocked  at  the  way  in 
\vhich  all  these  newcomers  are  admitted  into  county 
society." 

The  rector  cordially  agreed  as  to  the  undesirability 
of  the  modern  mixture  of  classes  and  creeds,  and  a 
desultory  talk  was  kept  up  between  him  and  Mrs.  Er 
rington  until  they  left  the  dining-room  to  finish  the 
evening  in  the  inharmonious  surroundings  of  her  sitting- 
room. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  5S 

The  thought  of  Elizabeth's  friendship  with  the  young 
Radical  was  not  agreeable  to  Eric.  Why  did  she  want 
to  mix  with  cads  like  that?  Sbe  was  too  good  for  such 
surroundings.  He  felt  the  gulf  that  existed  between 
himself  and  such  a  bounder  as  this  Fane.  It  seemed 
clearly  a  duty  to  deliver  a  nice  girl  from  people  like 
that.  He  felt  no  doubt  as  to  his  capability  of  training 
her  taste,  and  showing  her  what  a  gentleman  should  be. 

On  her  return  home  Elizabeth  also  determined  to 
mention  her  meeting  with  Eric.  Mrs.  Maynell  sat  stiffly 
dispensing  cocoa  and  cake.  *The  Sunday  evening  meal 
at  the  Manor  was  informal.  Who  had  preached?  she 
asked,  with  a  few  more  questions  as  to  the  congregation; 
and  then  Elizabeth  said,  with  slightly  heightened  color: 

"I  met  young  Mr.  Errington  in  the  meadow,  and  he 
asked  me  the  way  to  church,  and  I  showed  him  the 
road." 

"Good  gracious!"  said  her  aunt.  "I  hope  he  knew 
who  you  were.  What  did  he  take  you  for,  I  wonder, 
that  he  should  speak  to  you  without  an  introduction." 

Elizabeth  almost  smiled  when  she  remembered  how 
this  difficulty  had  been  overcome. 

"He  knew  my  name,"  she  said  demurely,  "and  in 
troduced  himself." 

"Twentieth  century  manners  with  a  vengeance," 
sniffed  her  aunt. 

When  bed-time  came,  and  Elizabeth  was  safe  in 
her  own  room,  with  Nanny  to  undress  her  and  tuck 
her  up  and  kiss  her  good -night,  her  spirits  were  un 
usually  exuberant. 

"Guess,  Nanny,"  she  said,  as  she  danced  round  the 
boarded  floor  which  surrounded  a  small  oasis  of  carpet, 
"guess  who  I've  seen.  The  fairy  prince,  Nanny,  and 
what's  more,"  she  said,  stopping  in  front  of  her,  "I've 
spoken  to  him.  A  real  prince,  handsome  and  good, 


56  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

and  very  brave,  for  he  made  acquaintance  without  any 
introduction." 

"Oh,  Miss  Elizabeth,  whatever  will  your  grandma 
say?"  said  Nanny;  but  in  her  romantic  heart  she  thought 
that  perhaps  he  too  had  found  the  enchanted  princess. 

The  world  never  seemed  so  beautiful  to  Elizabeth 
as  it  was  in  those  autumn  days.  The  golden  light  shone 
through  the  beech  trees,  touching  the  deep  brown  car 
pet  of  leaves  that  lay  on  the  green  grass  with  wonderful 
pink  and  brown  colors.  The  little  evening  mists  rose 
faint  and  blue  over  the  meadows,  and  the  robins  sang 
everywhere. 

It  was  strange  how  often  she  met  Eric,  and  how  natural 
it  was  to  tell  him  just  which  way  she  would  go  next  day, 
and  how  naturally  their  walk  led  the  same  way  and  they 
went  together.  At  first  such  meetings  only  meant  an 
added  interest  to  the  afternoon,  but  soon  her  first  waking 
thought  reached  out  to  that  point  in  her  day.  It  was 
the  pivot  on  which  all  her  other  plans  depended.  The 
ordinary  little  annoyances  of  life  no  longer  affected  her, 
if  only  the  afternoon  would  bring  those  hours  of  happy, 
indolent,  delightful  intercourse.  She  spent  more  time 
before  her  glass,  retrimmed  her  summer  hat  and  sat  up 
far  into  the  night  to  let  down  the  hem  of  her  dress.  She 
thought  it  looked  childish  to  wear  it  so  short.  She 
held  herself  better,  and  arranged  her  hair  with  care,  and 
almost  fancied  now  and  then  that  she  was  nice-looking, 
and  then,  as  she  anxiously  peered  at  herself  in  her  very 
small  mirror,  she  recollected  all  the  wonderful  people 
whom  Eric  had  described  to  her,  the  celebrated  beauties, 
whose  photographs  were  sold  in  the  London  shops,  and 
appeared  in  the  picture  papers,  and  she  turned  away, 
despising  her  own  temerity,  even  to  imagine  that  any 
one  in  all  the  world  could  care  how  she  looked  or  what 
she  wore. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  57 

To  Eric  those  walks  had  also  become  quite  a  pleasur 
able  experience.  He  had  at  first  been  amused  at  the 
curious  mixture  of  naivete  and  knowledge  which  Elizabeth 
displayed.  She  had  listened  eagerly  to  his  account  of 
all  the  people  he  had  met  and  known,  names  which  were 
historical  to  her,  but  to  him  were  friends  and  acquaint 
ances.  She  had  heard  with  interest  his  description  of 
that  great  world  of  London  which  seemed  so  far  away 
and  so  mysteriously  brilliant.  But  what  made  her 
singularly  interesting  to  him  was  the  fact  that  whenever 
he  talked  about  abstract  questions,  spoke  with  authority 
on  the  condition  of  the  masses  and  their  dependence  on 
the  classes,  settled  the  vexed  relations  of  the  sexes  in  a 
sentence,  or  condemned  a  political  party  with  whole 
sale  opprobrium,  he  found  that  Elizabeth  held  strong 
views,  not  to  be  shaken  by  generalities.  Here  her  mind 
was  formed,  her  reasons  ready,  and  while  she  listened 
patiently  to  his  sweeping  criticisms,  he  felt  he  influenced 
her  but  little. 

He  had  from  time  to  time  endeavored  to  "draw  her" 
as  to  her  friendship  with  the  Fanes,  but  on  this  subject 
she  was  singularly  reticent,  always  loyal  but  never  ex 
pansive.  She  instinctively  felt  that  a  gulf  was  fixed  in 
her  mind  between  these  friends  and  himself  which  she 
was  determined  should  not  easily  be  bridged. 

But  when  Eric  talked  of  art  and  music  Elizabeth 
\vas  enthralled.  He  would  describe  Wagner's  operas, 
explain  wherein  lay  his  stupendous  power;  demolish 
the  idols  she  had  hitherto  adored,  showing  her  how 
Mendelssohn  and  Handel  became  well-nigh  intoler 
able  to  those  who  were  held  captive  by  this  modern 
Titan.  Then  he  would  talk  of  Venice  and  of  Rome, 
give  her  graphic  pictures  of  Florentine  art,  tell  her  of 
the  wonders  of  the  Renaissance.  Elizabeth  would 
hang  on  his  words.  Her  soul  went  out  to  this  world  of 


58  ,  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

beauty  as  a  little  grub  rises  from  the  quiet  pool,  expands 
its  wings  and  soars  into  the  summer  air. 

Eric  could  talk  well,  and  he  knew  his  power.  He 
liked  to  watch  her  color  come  and  go,  and  the  pupils 
of  her  dark  eyes  dilate.  She  listened  to  him  while  he 
played  on  her  imagination  with  a  skilled  hand.  One 
evening  he  had  left  her  at  the  crossway  where  their  roads 
parted;  he  turned  to  watch  her  as  she  leisurely  crossed 
the  meadows.  The  picture  of  the  straight  figure  in  the 
sunlight  pleased  him,  and  he  noticed  her  graceful  strength, 
when  in  an  instant  his  arm  was  roughly  grasped,  and 
he  was  violently  hurled  across  the  road. 

A  rushing  sound,  the  toot  of  a  horn,  the  blinding 
dust  that  rose  round  him,  told  him  what  had  happened, 
and  how  narrow  had  been  his  escape.  Eric  looked 
round  to  find  his  deliverer.  A  squarely  built  bicyclist 
in  dusty  clothes,  with  a  flannel  shirt,  came  toward  him. 

"I  was  only  just  in  time,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"You  risked  getting  yourself  crushed,"  said  Eric. 
"I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you.  I  think  you  saved  my 
life." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  other  man.  "It  doesn't 
do  to  wool-gather  in  the  country  lanes;  these  rushing 
monsters  are  down  on  you  in  a  moment." 

Eric  liked  the  voice;  it  was  strong  and  kind.  He 
loitered  a  little,  and  talked  about  the  state  of  the  roads, 
the  various  hills,  the  best  machines,  as  the  stranger  walked 
beside  him,  wheeling  his  bicycle.  At  the  lodge  gate  his 
companion  stopped  and  said: 

"Good  evening.  This  is  your  road;  mine  lies  farther 
on  across  the  stream.  I  live  at  the  Mill  Farm,  and  my 
name  is  Fane.  I  heard  you  were  in  these  parts,  but  I 
have  been  away  for  some  weeks  and  only  just  returned. 
My  mother  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  ever  you  care  to 
come  our  way." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  59 

So  this  was  Fane,  thought  Eric,  as  he  walked  toward 
the  Hall,  the  man  Elizabeth  knows  and  won't  talk  about. 
He  felt  it  was  good  his  life  had  been  spared;  he  ought 
to  be  grateful,  but  he  almost  wished  that  he  did  not  owe 
it  to  this  man. 

"Anyhow,  the  fellow  is  a  gentleman,"  he  admitted 
grudgingly. 

Michael  told  the  incident  to  Elizabeth  and  laughed 
over  his  exploit. 

"I  saved  the  skin  of  the  heir  of  Ilbury,"  he  said,  "but 
I  shall  hope  at  a  future  time  to  help  divide  his  inheritance." 

He  was  astonished  that  she  did  not  seem  amused, 
and  made  but  little  response.  Elizabeth  asked  if  Er- 
rington  was  hurt,  and  then  appeared  to  take  no  further 
interest,  and  so  the  matter  was  referred  to  no  more. 


CHAPTER  V 

OLD  Mr.  Errington  had  sent  for  his  nephew  for  a  long 
business  conference.  Eric  was  puzzled  to  know  what 
had  resulted  from  the  interview.  His  uncle  had  told 
him  little  or  nothing,  beyond  the  generalities  which 
he  already  knew,  the  acreage  of  the  estate,  his  views 
on  farming  and  managing  land,  his  dislike  of  certain 
innovations  which  were  being  introduced  by  modern 
farmers,  his  particular  desire  to  give  no  rights-of-way 
through  the  park,  and  the  necessity  of  closing  such  roads 
to  the  public  in  order  to  destroy  any  future  claim  which 
might  be  set  up.  But  when  he  left  the  old  man's  rooms 
he  was  no  wiser  as  to  any  details  of  his  uncle's  property 
than  when  he  arrived.  The  only  piece  of  information 
he  had  gained  was  that  his  uncle  had  investments  in  a 
group  of  companies,  called  the  Star,  which  he  appeared 
to  think  a  good  thing,  but  how  much  money  he  had 
invested,  or  what  his  other  securities  were,  he  had  not 
heard. 

The  interview  over,  all  excuse  for  prolonging  his 
stay  at  the  Hall  was  at  an  end,  and  his  departure  was 
fixed  for  the  following  day.  He  had  won  golden  opinions 
from  his  aunt,  who  continually  repeated  that  it  was 
really  delightful  to  find  a  young  man  so  willing  to  settle 
into  their  ways,  requiring  nothing  but  their  society,  and 
rejoicing  in  the  quiet  life  at  Ilbury. 

On  that  last  afternoon  Eric  met  Elizabeth  in  the 
park,  by  a  stream  that  ran  through  a  long  narrow  valley. 
The  air  was  very  still  and  the  water  tinkled  over  the 
stones  in  the  bed  of  the  brook  with  gentle  monotony. 

60 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  61 

From  time  to  time  a  leaf  fell  with  a  little  flutter,  but  it 
was  an  autumn  day  when  the  world  seemed  to  hold  its 
breath,  as  though  anxious  to  delay  the  change  which  should 
strip  it  of  its  beauty. 

They  sat  together  on  a  fallen  tree,  and  both  seemed 
somewhat  embarrassed.  Eric  because  he  felt  half  in 
clined  to  induce  Elizabeth  to  tell  him  how  large  a  place 
he  held  in  her  heart,  and  yet  decided  to  refrain  from 
committing  himself;  Elizabeth  because  she  feared  lest 
her  voice  might  tremble  when  she  talked  of  the  time  that 
was  coming,  and  that  thus  she  might  unduly  show  how 
she  dreaded  the  parting  which  loomed  large  on  the  mor 
row.  So  they  talked  of  every  conceivable  subject  which 
had  but  little  interest  for  either,  and  Elizabeth  was  un 
naturally  gay,  and  laughed  on  the  most  trifling  provocation. 

"When  shall  we  two  meet  again?"  said  Eric.  "You 
certainly  have  made  my  stay  here  not  only  bearable  but 
delightful.  What  should  I  have  done,  shut  up  with  those 
two  old  mummies,  if  I  had  not  been  able  to  talk  to  you?" 

The  color  came  into  Elizabeth's  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  am  afraid  if  you  had 
left  you  would  have  suffered  for  your  rebellion  later 
on;  but  now,  at  any  rate,  you  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  you  have  done  your  duty  for  years  to  come." 
She  poked  a  little  hole  in  the  grass  with  her  umbrella, 
and  did  not  look  up. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Eric;  "it's  only  to  last  a  very 
short  time.  I  have  promised  to  be  back  at  Christmas." 

Elizabeth's  heart  gave  such  a  thump  that  she  felt 
he  must  almost  have  heard  it.  She  looked  up  quickly, 
and  then,  trying  to  appear  indifferent,  she  said: 

"Two  months  hence!  Why,  that  is  no  time!"  Then, 
as  the  full  force  of  the  news  grew  upon  her,  in  the  exu 
berance  of  her  pleasure  she  forgot  for  a  moment  her 
supposed  unconcern,  and  cried  gayly:  "Ten  Sundays; 


62  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

sixty  more  dinners."  She  went  on  calculating.  "A 
hundred  and  thirty  breakfasts  and  teas,  and  you  will  be 
back  again."  She  laughed,  and  the  remembrance  of 
their  first  meeting  came  so  vividly  before  him  that  he 
almost  held  out  his  arms  to  claim  her  then  and  there. 

"Will  the  time  seem  so  dull?"  asked  Eric. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you,"  she  replied.  "You  will 
go  back  to  a  good  time  and  jolly  friends,  and  you  will 
see  beautiful  things,  and  hear  splendid  music;  but  I 
shall  go  on  and  on  and  on,  all  my  life,  till  I  look  like 
Aunt  Harriet."  She  felt  she  had  committed  herself, 
that  he  might  misinterpret  her  meaning,  and  added: 
"And  yet  I  am  absolutely  happy,  and  I  want  to  stay  here 
all  my  life.  It  is  a  beautiful  place;  the  best  in  the  world. 
I  should  hate  London,  and  going  out  and  seeing  a  lot  of 
strange  people." 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  see  Venice  and  Rome  and  Paris  ?" 

Oh,  no,  I  am  happy  just  as  I  am.  I  want  nothing. 
I  love  the  village;  and  the  Fanes  are  so  good  to  me. 
They  are  always  glad  to  have  me  at  the  Mill,  and  they 
are  dear  people." 

Once  more  the  strong  desire  came  to  Eric  to  place  him 
self  for  ever  in  a  position  where  equality  could  be  no 
longer  possible  with  this  other  friend.  But  again  he 
prudently  refrained. 

"I  called  on  them,"  he  said,  "to  thank  Fane  for  having 
warned  me  of  the  motor.  Good,  commonplace  people, 
I  should  imagine." 

"Commonplace?"  said  Elizabeth.  "That's  the  last 
word  you  can  use.  Why,  Michael  took  a  double  first!" 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  took  a  treble  first,"  said  Eric.  "  They 
are  commonplace.  I  could  find  you  thousands  of  good, 
cultivated,  enthusiastic  people  just  like  them;  excellent 
and  thoroughly  middle-class." 

"I  daresay  you  could,"  said  Elizabeth.     "They  are 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  63 

my  friends,  so  I  belong  to  the  middle-class;  we  have 
the  same  ways  and  ideas,  that  is  why,  I  suppose,  they 
appeal  to  me." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Eric.  "You  do  not  belong  to 
them.  The  spirit  of  bourgeoisie  is  the  most  subtle  thing 
in  the  world — like  a  smell.  I  have  tried  again  and  again 
to  define  it,  but  it's  entirely  elusive." 

"I  defy  you  to  know  anything  about  them,"  said 
Elizabeth.  "In  one  afternoon  you  cannot  possibly 
classify  people." 

"Mrs.  Fane  put  milk  into  the  cups  before  the  tea," 
said  Eric— "that's  a  symptom;  and  she  had  curled  up 
bread  and  butter — that's  another." 

"Well,  that  is  delicate  diagnosis,"  said  Elizabeth; 
"but  she  had  no  teapot  cosy." 

"No.  But  believe  me,  Miss  Maynell,  they  are.  It's 
wonderfully  middle-class  to  be  so  insistent  about  things 
that  really  don't  matter.  It  was  in  very  bad  taste  to 
try  and  get  me  to  speak  to  my  uncle  about  water  for 
the  cottages.  Those  are  things  to  talk  about  with  agents, 
not  with  your  acquaintances." 

Elizabeth  did  not  appear  keen  to  continue  the  argu 
ment,  and  by-and-by  the  sun  was  low  and  red  on  the 
horizon,  and  dipped  behind  the  hanging  woods  which 
outlined  the  hill,  and  a  cold  gray  mist  began  to  gather. 
Elizabeth  felt  it  was  no  use  to  delay,  and  she  had  best 
be  the  first  to  rise.  So  she  got  up,  and  said,  with  an 
air  of  exaggerated  indifference: 

"It  is  late.     I  must  be  walking  homeward." 

He  sauntered  down  the  road  with  her,  where  they 
had  so  often  walked,  and  came  to  the  crossways,  where 
they  always  parted. 

"I  shall  let  you  know  directly  I  get  back,"  he  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand;  he  took  it,  held  it  for  a  moment, 
and  then  both  went  their  own  way. 


64  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Two  long,  long  months.  How  I  lied  when  I  said 
I  was  happy,"  thought  Elizabeth.  "If  I  knew  he  was 
safe  every  day,  and  that  he  missed  me  a  little,  I  should 
not  mind  the  dreary  time  so  much.  But  the  horrible 
silence  will  be  unendurable!" 

Next  day  Eric  went  to  London.  He  thought  of  Eliza 
beth  all  the  way  up  in  the  train,  remembered  certain 
turns  of  her  head  and  little  inflections  of  her  voice.  It 
pleased  him  to  lie  back  and  think  of  her,  while  he  smoked 
a  cigarette  and  fancied  what  she  was  doing,  and  where 
she  was  walking,  and  how  sad  she  must  be. 

When  he  arrived  at  Paddington  he  called  a  hansom 
cab  and  drove  to  his  club.  It  was  nearly  three  months 
since  he  had  been  in  London,  for  he  had  left  for  the  north 
a  little  before  the  twelfth.  How  jolly  it  looks,  he  thought, 
as  the  familiar  streets  greeted  him  with  their  various 
associations.  He  ran  up  the  club  steps.  Several  letters 
and  telegrams  were  waiting  for  him,  some  bills  which  he 
hastily  tore  up,  and  three  invitations.  Lady  Hornden 
and  her  daughter  were  in  town — would  he  dine  and  do  a 
play?  Yes,  certainly.  Mrs.  Rodney  had  a  play  party 
and  supper  afterward.  Yes,  she  was  always  good  com 
pany.  So  he  telegraphed  to  Lady  Hornden  and  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Rodney.  He  went  into  the  smoking-room,  lit 
a  cigar  and  took  up  a  paper.  The  image  of  Elizabeth 
seemed  less  vivid,  as  though  the  sharp  outlines  of  the 
drawing  had  been  somewhat  effaced  by  other  hands. 

The  dull  November  days  seemed  dark  and  long. 
The  first  weeks  after  Eric's  departure  appeared  inter 
minable  to  Elizabeth.  When  first  she  walked  the  familiar 
ways  it  seemed  as  though  the  emptiness  wras  unendurable. 
Her  whole  heart  cried  out  against  the  solitude.  She 
walked  through  the  desolate  valley  in  the  park;  she 
stood  before  the  fallen  tree  where  they  had  sat  together, 
and  the  hunger  for  the  absent  was  almost  physical  pain. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  65 

If  only  some  news  of  him  would  come  to  her,  some  token 
that  He  still  remembered. 

The  thought  of  the  many  more  attractive  women 
who  surrounded  him  became  intolerable.  She  was  a 
prey  to  jealousy  of  unknown  rivals,  whose  form  and 
features  her  imagination  materialized.  She  thought 
of  him  all  the  day  long;  she  prayed  for  him  fervently 
by  her  little  bedside  at  night;  but  to  no  human  being 
did  she  speak  his  name,  but  locked  away  her  sorrow 
and  her  hope.  For  hope  she  certainly  had.  He  said 
he  would  come  back.  He  had  held  her  hand  and  looked 
into  her  eyes.  Did  not  men  look  like  that  when  they 
loved?  Then  the  hot  color  would  come  into  her  face 
and  she  would  feel  that  even  the  thought  was  presump 
tuous. 

She  spent  less  time  at  the  Mill  Farm.  Mrs.  Fane 
felt,  with  the  intuition  of  a  sensitive  mind,  that  some 
thing  had  changed  the  child  into  a  woman.  What 
was  the  subtle  difference  it  would  be  hard  to  define. 
She  was  absent-minded  often,  and  seemed  scarcely  to 
heed  the  little  interests  which  had  been  so  absorbing 
to  her  but  a  few  months  ago.  There  was  an  aloofness 
about  her  which,  for  the  first  time,  betokened  the  pos 
sibility  of  there  being  regions  of  mind  into  which  her 
friends  could  not  penetrate;  locked  gates  which  even 
the  hand  of  friendship  might  not  open. 

When  Michael  came  from  London  he  too  found  her 
reserved.  She  still  listened  to  and  laughed  at  all  he 
had  to  tell  her,  was  interested  in  his  news,  but  had  noth 
ing  to  tell  him  in  return.  He  questioned  his  mother 
about  her.  Was  Elizabeth  changed?  he  asked.  What 
had  happened?  Was  she  unhappy?  But  the  wise 
woman,  who  had  come  to  no  conclusions,  answered  that 
Elizabeth  was  growing  up;  girls  changed  as  they  got 
older,  and  the  transition  period  was  often  difficult. 
5 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHRISTMAS  came  at  last.  There  is  a  wonderful  simi 
larity  in  anniversaries;  they  are  like  members  of  one 
family  who  have  a  strong  resemblance  to  one  another, 
and  if  some  event  comes  to  break  the  chain  which  binds 
them  to  each  other,  it  brings  to  us  a  sort  of  dismay,  as 
though  the  links  of  life  were  unduly  disarranged. 

To  many  the  happiness  of  Christmas  consists  in  its 
beautiful  monotony,  the  family  gatherings  which  have 
taken  place  with  unbroken  regularity,  the  little  inci 
dents  whose  very  charm  lies  in  their  recurrence,  the 
small  surprises,  the  shrill  voices  of  children  singing 
the  same  old  words  to  the  well-known  tune,  the  return 
to  old  home  ways.  All  these  mean  Christmas  to  hun 
dreds  of  men  and  women;  and  even  if  the  season  brings 
no  vivid  happiness,  no  special  touch-point  with  other 
lives  dear  to  us  by  ties  of  friendship  or  of  kin,  there  is  a 
sweet  monotony  in  the  little  round  of  duties  and  of  pleasure, 
which  is  intimately  connected  in  our  minds  with  this 
festival  which  binds  humanity  to  God. 

To  Elizabeth  Christmas  had  never  brought  the  joy 
of  a  family  re-united,  but  it  had  always  been  a  time  of 
quiet  pleasure.  The  very  fact  that  everything  ever 
since  she  could  remember  had  always  been  the  same 
was  in  itself  a  joy  she  had  begun  to  appreciate.  To 
night  she  stood  beside  the  kitchen  fire  and  watched 
Nanny  making  the  festive  puddings.  Elizabeth  im 
agined  that  she  was  taking  her  share  of  the  labor,  but 
Nanny,  with  her  sleeves  tucked  up  and  her  face  glowing 
from  exertion,  would  have  told  a  different  tale. 

66 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  67 

"Reach  me  that  packet  of  cinnamon,  dear,"  she 
said.  Elizabeth  went  to  the  dresser  and  gave  her  a  small 
brown  paper  bag. 

"Bless  your  soul!"  said  Nanny  hastily.  "It's  cloves 
you've  given  me.  Very  odd  how  you  seem  to  'ave  lost 
your  memory.  I  can't  make  it  out.  I  stoned  all  them 
currants  over  again  as  you  did  yesterday,  but  bless  you, 
dear,  I  was  glad  for  to  do  it." 

Nanny  scarcely  looked  up.     Elizabeth  seemed  troubled. 

"Do  I  forget?"  she  said.  "Nanny,  I  don't  think 
so,"  and  she  gazed  into  the  fire  again  and  kept  silence. 
By-and-by  she  asked,  with  magnificent  indifference: 
"Are  they  having  any  party  at  the  Hall  this  Christmas?" 

"Party?"  panted  Nanny,  turning  the  heavy  sub 
stance  with  a  slap  in  her  basin.  "What  company  do 
they  ever  keep?  Not  so  much  as  the  rich  man  in  the 
Gospels,  for  they  don't  even  let  the  poor  man  eat  the 
crumbs  as  fall  from  their  table.  The  squire,  'e'd  'ave 
'em  swep'  up  and  kept  for  the  servants'  dinner." 

"Of  course  I  didn't  suppose  they  would  have  a  party; 
they're  too  old,"  said  Elizabeth;  "only  I  thought  per 
haps  some  of  their  relations  might  come." 

"I  b'lieve  I  did  'ear  as  the  young  squire  was  a-com- 
ing,"  said  Nanny,  "but  whether  it  was  before  or  after 
Christmas  I  couldn't  say." 

She  paused  in  her  work  and  looked  up.  There  was 
a  moment's  silence.  Then,  as  if  a  new  idea  had  dawned 
upon  her,  she  wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron  and  went 
across  the  kitchen  and  stood  by  Elizabeth. 

"Honey,"  she  said  gently,  "I  know  who  you've  been 
a-thinking  about;  but  don't  let  your  heart  go  out  to 
'im  afore  'e's  told  you  that  he  has  given  you  'is  already, 
or  else  there'll  be  trouble.  I'm  afraid  of  these  fine 
gentlemen  a-comin'  down  'ere,  and  it's  'Won't  you 
have  a  walk  'ere  ? '  and  '  Will  you  come  a-boating  there  ? ' 


68  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

and  then  go  off  and  leave  nothin'  be'ind  but  sore  hearts 
and  long  thoughts.  Oh,  dear!  don't  you  be  a-giving  him 
what  'e  'asn't  given  you,  dear  Miss  Elizabeth,  don't  you!" 

And  she  put  her  kind  hand  on  the  girl's  arm.  Eliza 
beth  half  turned. 

"Nanny,"  she  said,  "I  don't;  I  don't.  I  am  not 
giving  anything  he  is  not  ready  to  give  me  back  in  re 
turn."  But  she  said  the  words  with  the  misgiving  that 
came  almost  as  a  prophecy.  Nanny  returned  to  her 
pudding  in  silence. 

Later  Elizabeth  was  sitting  in  her  own  little  bed 
room,  the  one  place  which  was  all  her  own.  It  was 
bare  in  its  frugal  simplicity.  The  narrow  bed,  the 
worn  furniture,  the  white  walls,  hung  with  every  kind 
of  picture  and  photographs,  collected  through  the  years, 
the  tiny  dressing-table  with  its  common  looking-glass, 
were  all  dear  to  the  girl's  heart. 

To-night  she  had  cleared  the  table,  and  by  the  light 
of  a  solitary  candle  she  was  tying  up  small  bundles  and 
writing  the  names  of  those  for  whom  they  were  destined. 
There  were  the  servant  girls,  Mary  and  Emma,  a  blue 
and  pink  bow  for  each — Elizabeth  held  them  by  turns 
against  her  neck  to  judge  how  they  would  look,  and  then 
packed  them  in  neat  little  parcels — a  new  pipe  for  the 
gardener;  a  penny  whistle  for  the  eldest  boy;  a  woolly 
bird  for  the  baby.  Each  tiny  bundle  was  laid  on  the  bed. 

Then  Elizabeth  opened  a  small  cardboard  box  and 
held  a  little  gold  brooch  up  to  the  light  with  a  look  of 
real  pride — her  present  for  Nanny.  How  surprised 
she  would  be!  She  would  wonder  how  on  earth  she 
had  got  anything  so  grand.  She  would  never  guess 
that  Michael  had  brought  it  from  London,  or  the  many 
directions  Elizabeth  had  given  him  with  that  marked 
advertisement  in  the  " Queen"  newspaper.  The  brooch 
was  replaced  in  its  pink  cotton  wool,  tied  up  and  addressed 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  69 

"For  my  darling  Nanny."  Then  with  a  sigh  she  took 
up  a  little  volume  of  daily  readings  and  inscribed  her 
aunt's  name  "from  her  affectionate  niece."  A  small 
Shetland  shawl  for  her  grandmother,  and  only  two  more 
presents  remained  to  be  packed,  one  a  cheap  edition 
of  Epictetus.  She  opened  the  first  page,  held  her  pen 
and  hesitated,  why  she  hardly  knew,  then  slowly  wrote: 
"For  M.  F.,  from  E.  M."  She  had  never  written  the 
inscription  in  any  of  her  yearly  gifts  in  that  form,  but  it 
was  the  fittest,  so  it  now  seemed  to  her.  "To  my  darling 
Mrs.  Fane,"  she  wrote  in  the  "Gardeners'  Almanack," 
which  was  the  last  present,  wrapped  both  together  and 
directed  them  to  the  Mill  Farm.  The  milkman  would 
take  them  in  the  morning.  Then  she  sat  still  and  thought. 

The  happiness  of  the  occupation  had  changed  the 
current  of  her  ideas.  She  was  easily  lifted  from  de 
pression,  and  quickly  responded  to  passing  pleasure. 
If  her  occupation  was  congenial,  trouble  might  lie  deep 
down  in  her  heart,  but  the  current  of  life  would  flow 
over  it  smoothly,  and  even  joyously.  She  had  the  rare 
faculty  of  living  in  the  moment  and  of  enjoying  what 
the  hour  might  bring,  which  kept  her  mind  supple,  and 
gave  continued  vigor  to  hope. 

By-and-by  she  rose  and  began  to  tidy  her  little  room 
and  lay  her  parcels  in  a  neat  row.  Then  she  took  out 
her  best  hat  and  brushed  it  carefully,  looked  out  a  pair 
of  new  gloves,  examined  the  safety  of  the  buttons  with 
unusual  anxiety,  and  finally  took  up  her  Bible  and  began 
to  look  over  a  Christmas  lesson  for  the  children. 

Presently  the  still  air  was  filled  with  the  sound  of 
bells.  She  opened  the  window  and  looked  up  at  the  stars, 
and  the  thought  came  to  her  as  she  looked  out  into  the 
night  that  these  were  the  same  stars  that  had  shone  over 
the  Bethlehem  stable.  She  put  her  hands  together  and 
knelt  down.  No  words  came,  only  she  prayed  that  she 


70  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

might  meet  Eric,  and  that  he  might  love  her — if  it  was 
God's  will,  she  added;  but  her  submission  was  not  very 
real,  for  if  she  could  have  coerced  the  power  that  holds 
our  lives,  assuredly  she  would  have  done  so. 

On  Christmas  Day  three  figures  sat  in  the  Erringtons* 
pew,  and  Elizabeth  returned  from  church  in  exuberant 
spirits.  In  the  afternoon  she  went,  as  usual,  to  the  Mill 
Farm,  by  an  unusually  circuitous  route,  but  to  no  pur 
pose.  The  day  was  bitterly  cold,  and  toward  evening, 
when  she  returned,  the  snow  began  to  fall. 

Never  had  any  hours  seemed  so  long  as  that  Christ 
mas  night,  so  anxiously  did  Elizabeth  desire  the  morrow. 
The  next  day  saw  a  white  world,  every  twig  adorned 
with  a  diamond  parure,  every  roof  outlined  in  pearly 
white  against  a  sapphire  sky.  People  murmured  plati 
tudes  about  an  old-fashioned  Christmas,  but  not  even 
Miss  MaynelPs  remark  that  "snow  made  the  country 
look  vulgar,  like  a  common  Christmas  card,"  could  mar 
Elizabeth's  joy  in  the  wonderful  exhilaration  of  the  day. 

Soon  after  luncheon  she  dressed  with  unusual  care 
and  started  for  the  yew  walk,  a  long  line  of  evergreen 
trees  which  united  the  broad  undulating  sweep  of  park 
with  the  bare  hills  in  the  open  country.  What  inspira 
tion  led  her  to  this  place  she  did  not  know.  The  branches 
of  the  yew  trees  looked  almost  black,  bearing  their  snow 
burden,  but  the  sombre  coloring  was  a  relief  from  the 
dazzling  whiteness  of  the  road.  The  birds  hopped 
before  her  as  she  walked,  tamed  by  the  scarcity  of  food. 
The  road  was  long  and  lay  between  the  trees  like  some 
garden  walk  bordered  with  formal  hedge;  and  yet  so 
winding  was  it  in  places  that  you  could  not  tell  what  the 
next  bend  would  reveal.  Elizabeth  walked  quickly,  and 
as  she  turned  the  first  sharp  corner  she  saw  writhin  a 
hundred  yards  the  man  whose  presence  she  so  desired. 

How  many  thousand  times  during  the  last  two  months 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  71 

had  fancy  painted  just  this  moment;  and  yet  when  it 
had  come  she  almost  dreaded  the  meeting.  Would  her 
dreams  be  all  dispelled?  Would  the  reality  bring  pain 
or  joy?  Never  did  these  twin  spirits  seem  so  near  to 
gether. 

Eric  saw  her  at  the  same  moment  as  he  came  leisurely 
along  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder.  He  had  been  out 
for  a  day's  shooting,  "for  the  pot,"  as  he  called  this 
solitary  sport.  The  past  months  had  somewhat  dulled 
the  eagerness  of  his  desire  to  meet  Elizabeth,  but  on 
Christmas  Day  as  he  watched  her  in  church  the  eager 
longing  to  be  near  her  again  possessed  him,  and  the  hope 
that  he  might  meet  her  had  been  in  his  mind  all  day. 
And  now  the  sight  of  the  slight  figure,  the  brilliant  color, 
and  the  strangely  appealing  face,  brought  back  with  a 
rush  those  feelings  the  intensity  of  which  he  had  almost 
forgotten. 

They  were  shaking  hands  with  all  the  formalities  and 
little  deceptions  used  by  those  who  dare  not  put  their 
real  feelings  into  words.  Then  they  turned  and  walked 
together,  talking  of  weather  and  like  platitudes. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  since  I  left?"  said  Eric. 

"Oh,  vegetating  quite  happily,"  said  Elizabeth,  "each 
day  the  same  as  the  last;  but  monotony  is  healthy." 

"Did  you  think  about  our  walks  sometimes?"  he  said. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Elizabeth,  and  she  smiled. 

He  could  not  understand  why  she  did  not  expand 
as  much  as  when  they  were  last  together.  It  vexed 
him  that  she  should  seem  more  reticent,  and  her  restraint 
urged  him  to  be  more  demonstrative  himself. 

"I  have  often  thought  of  them,"  he  said,  "the  yellow 
lights  and  the  brown  leaves.  What  golden  days  they 
were!" 

"Yes,  they  were  beautiful,"  said  Elizabeth,  but  too 
demurely  to  please  Eric. 


72  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

He  told  her  of  his  visits,  of  the  people  he  had  met, 
of  the  pictures  he  had  seen  and  the  music  he  had  heard. 
She  responded  sympathetically.  By-and-by  the  hap 
piness  which  had  been  pent  up  began  to  melt  like  a 
frozen  river  in  spring.  Her  laughter  rippled  out  and 
joyousness  possessed  her.  Eric  was  exultant.  He  told 
her  of  some  new  plans  which  he  intended  to  follow  up, 
of  the  possibilities  of  producing  music  which  had  not 
yet  been  heard  in  this  country.  He  described  to  her  a 
cantata,  written  by  a  Pole,  unknown  as  yet  in  England. 
The  music  expressed  the  great  problem  of  life,  he  said. 
He  hummed  the  score  and  then  explained  to  her  where 
the  theme  changed,  the  mingling  of  sorrow  and  of  pain, 
how  the  exuberance  died  out,  giving  place  to  the  sorrowful 
wail  of  the  lonely. 

They  paused.  She  stood  and  listened.  The  white 
world  was  still.  Hardly  a  blade  of  grass  stirred.  Only 
the  sound  of  Eric's  voice  broke  the  silence  as  he  sang 
softly  the  minor  air.  Elizabeth  looked  up  at  him.  The 
remembrance  of  the  long,  lonely  days  seemed  to  be  in 
terpreted  by  the  song.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  great 
drops  that  did  not  flow,  but  remained  large  and  bright, 
as  in  the  eyes  of  a  child. 

A  flood  of  pity  swept  over  Eric.  The  exhilaration 
of  the  crisp,  clear  air  was  like  wine  in  his  veins;  the 
face,  so  delicate  and  pitiful,  looked  up  to  his.  A  desire 
to  protect  this  tender  thing  was  overmastering,  and  with 
out  a  word  he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

Elizabeth  was  for  a  moment  speechless.  Were  the 
gates  of  heaven  thrown  open?  Had  she  only  to  pass 
in  to  be  happy  for  ever  and  ever?  The  next  moment 
her  face  was  hidden  and  she  was  crying  quietly  in  his 
arms. 

"My  little  girl,"  whispered  Eric,  "have  you  missed 
me?  Have  the  days  seemed  long?" 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  73 

"Days?"  said  Elizabeth,  raising  her  face  and  smil 
ing  through  her  tears.  "They  were  as  the  days  in 
Genesis,  which  we  are  told  mean  years  without  end. 
But  why  does  anything  matter  now?  Oh,  I  love  you; 
I  love  you;  and  you  love  me." 

It  was  the  old  story,  told  ten  thousand  times — told 
by  the  ^Egean  Sea,  when  the  loves  of  men  and  gods 
mingled  in  far-off  days — told  in  stately  palace  gardens 
beneath  dark  cypress  trees  under  Italian  skies,  and 
echoed  in  humble  corners  of  the  earth,  in  lanes  and 
hedgerows  and  mean  streets. 

"When  did  you  first  know  you  loved  me?"  he  asked, 
as  they  went  through  the  foolish  catechism  \vhich  ex 
pounds  the  creed  of  love  in  all  times  and  places  and 
languages. 

"When  first  I  saw  you."  And  then  each  told  the 
other  of  their  hopes  and  fears  and  joys. 

Then  they  parted.     As  Eric  held  her  hand,  he  said: 

"Elizabeth,  I  have  one  thing  to  ask  you.  Don't 
tell  anyone  of  this  just  yet.  You  see,  my  uncle  is  very 
old,  and  I  have  to  go  softly." 

A  little  shadow  came  over  Elizabeth's  face. 

"Oh,  Eric,  it  is  such  a  big  thing  to  keep  secret,"  she 
said.  "  How  can  I  ?  Would  it  be  right  ?  " 

"Yes,  because  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand; 
"and  you  had  better  begin  to  practise  obedience  now, 
for  you  will  have  to  do  so  very  soon." 

"Well,  my  lord  and  master,"  said  Elizabeth,  "take 
all  the  responsibility  always  and  for  ever."  And  she 
looked  at  him  with  happy,  trustful  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ERIC  turned  into  the  long  avenue  and  walked  slowly 
toward  the  Hall.  His  mind  was  still  confused  with 
conflicting  emotions.  He  had  gone  further  than  he 
intended,  and  had  sealed  his  fate  with  a  rashness  he 
hardly  regretted,  so  strongly  had  Elizabeth  stirred  his 
affections.  The  touch  of  her  little  hand,  the  soft  supple 
figure  he  had  held  in  his  arms,  were  still  vivid  sensa 
tions;  and  the  pleasure  of  the  experience  triumphed  over 
the  prudence  he  had  prescribed. 

"She  is  really  devoted  to  me,"  he  thought,  "and  a 
beautiful,  lovable  woman." 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  long  gray  house  as  he 
had  seen  it  three  months  ago.  It  would  be  his  home 
and  hers.  They  would  live  here  in  dignified  prosperity. 
The  children — his  children — would  play  in  the  gardens 
and  run  about  the  corridors.  Elizabeth  would  sit  at 
the  head  of  his  table  and  entertain  his  guests.  What 
impression  would  she  make  on  his  friends?  He  ran 
over  a  list  of  people  and  tried  to  imagine  their  comments. 
She  might  never  be  exactly  a  "smart  woman,"  but  she 
was  refined  and  cultivated  and  captivating.  She  would 
dress  well,  in  a  style  peculiarly  her  own.  Of  course  she 
would  drop  ridiculous  political  ideas,  derived  from 
association  with  people  like  the  Fanes. 

Here  he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  the  sense  came  to 
him  that  Elizabeth  would  never  allow  herself  to  be  co 
erced. 

"I  shall  have  to  manage  her  gently,"  he  thought, 
"but  her  love  for  me  will  overcome  such  little  obstacles." 

74 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  75 

And  so  with  his  mind  full  of  the  future  he  walked 
up  the  broad  gravel  drive  toward  the  front  door.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  Wilkins,  the  butler,  coming  out 
from  the  house  to  meet  him. 

Why  was  he  waiting?  Was  he  late?  The  man's 
hands  hung  down  by  his  side.  He  took  short  steps 
with  a  little  swinging  walk,  as  though  he  were  announc 
ing  a  visitor.  As  he  came  nearer  Eric  saw  that  his  face 
looked  unusually  grave  and  that  he  made  no  return  to 
the  smile  with  which  he  greeted  him. 

"Mr.  Errington,"  he  said,  "I  have  some  news,  very 
serious  news,  for  you.  You  must  prepare  for  a  sad 
blow,  sir.  The  old  squire  — 

"111?"  said  Errington,  stopping  short. 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  Wilkins.  "He's  been  took, 
Mr.  Errington,  took  quite  sudden,  sir,  sittin'  at  his 
libr'y  table.  It  was  'alf  past  two,  Mr.  Errington,  as 
I  should  say  a  quarter  to  three,  as  I  went  in  to  see  to 
his  fire.  The  old  gentleman  seemed  quite  comfortable. 
He  was  doing  of  his  accounts.  I  'card  'im  reckoning 
to  'imself.  And  just  before  tea  time  Nurse  Jones  went 
with  'is  tonic  as  'e  always  takes  in  the  afternoon — a 
tablespoonful  of  brandy,  sir,  and  some  ginger — and  when 
she  opened  the  door  she  saw  your  poor  old  uncle  a-lying 
all  crouched  up  of  a  heap.  He  seemed  'ardly  to  know 
her.  But  she  went  up  to  him  and  roused  him  up  a  bit, 
and  'e  says  to  'er:  'Send  for  Mr.  McEwen,'  'e  says,  'I 
want  to  sell  out  some  stock;'  and  then  'e  says  something 
about  the  stars,  delirious  like,  I  should  judge,  as  the 
window  curtains  had  been  drawn  quite  a  while;  and  'e 
falls  back  quite  dead,  'e  did,  sir." 

Eric  held  his  breath.  At  first  he  felt  almost  stunned 
by  the  suddenness  of  the  event,  which  he  had  learned  to 
regard  as  distant.  Then  there  came  a  great  rushing 
sense  of  exhilaration.  Were  all  the  difficulties  gone? 


76  UNDER   THE   ARCH 

Was  he  now  a  man  of  position  and  of  fortune?  In  a 
moment  he  thought  of  himself  with  added  importance. 

He  had  indeed  bestowed  a  great  gift  on  Elizabeth 
now  that  with  his  own  hand  he  could  set  the  door  of 
his  home  open  to  receive  her.  He  kept  a  firm  hold  on 
his  feelings,  and,  after  a  pause,  he  asked  in  subdued 
tones  about  his  aunt.  His  words  seemed  to  him  to 
have  gathered  weight  as  he  spoke  of  the  terrible  shock 
his  uncle's  death  must  have  caused. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Eric,"  said  Wilkins,  "she's  terrible  over 
come,  she  is.  We  was  obliged  to  break  it  to  her  afore 
you  come  back,  sir,  as  we  was  afraid  she  might  'ave 
gone  in  to  the  corpse.  She  looked  sort  of  frightened, 
and  then  she  cried  quite  gentle,  and  nurse,  she  put  'er 
to  bed,  and  that's  where  she  is  now,  poor  lady.  She 
said  she  was  sorry  'e'd  gone  off  'is  'ead,  otherwise  she 
should  have  sent  for  the  rector  to  pray  to  'im;  but  of 
course  the  Lord's  ways  isn't  ours,"  said  the  butler,  as 
though  he  might  have  improved  upon  them  considerably 
if  he  were  given  a  chance. 

Eric  walked  across  the  hall,  and  then  he  paused. 
What  ought  he  to  do?  He  felt  undecided.  What 
was  the  right  thing?  Ought  he  to  go  straight  to  the 
library?  He  shrank  from  the  thought.  He  had  seen 
dead  people  very  often;  but  somehow  he  could  hardly 
endure  to  see  this  man  whose  place  he  was  so  soon  to 
take,  but  he  was  particularly  desirous  of  doing  the  right 
thing.  Wilkins  solved  the  problem. 

"I  wouldn't  go  in  now,  Mr.  Eric — Mr.  Errington,  I 
beg  pardon — but  nurse  is  a-getting  the  poor  thing  ready 
for  us  to  take  'im  upstairs  after  the  doctor's  been." 

The  doctor;  that  was  a  great  relief.  Yes,  that  would 
be  someone  to  speak  to.  It  would  be  a  blessing  to  have 
a  definite  duty  to  fulfil.  It  was  clearly  his  part  to  see 
all  those  who  came,  and  make  all  arrangements. 


UNDER   THE  ARCH  77 

Wilkins  began  to  draw  down  the  blinds.  He  moved 
noiselessly  from  window  to  window,  and  reminded  him,  as 
the  grating  sound  of  the  rollers  attracted  his  attention, 
that  when  they  were  drawn  up  again  the  house  would 
be  his  own. 

"Please  sir,"  said  the  maid,  coming  quickly  toward 
him,  "Mrs.  Errington  would  like  to  see  you,  sir." 

He  turned  to  follow  her  up  the  shallow  staircase,  with 
a  sense  of  discomfort  at  the  idea  of  finding  himself  in 
the  presence  of  grief,  and  a  guilty  feeling  that  what 
brought  her  pain  had  brought  him  all  that  he  desired. 

The  room  was  nearly  dark;  the  fire  flickered  on  the 
ceiling  in  little  patches  of  light,  and  at  first  he  could 
not  understand  the  geography  of  the  furniture.  But 
when  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  dimness  he  saw 
the  mahogany  four-post  bedstead,  and,  buried  among 
the  pillows,  the  little  figure  which  seemed  to  have  grown 
even  smaller  since  he  had  seen  her  in  the  morning. 

"Eric,  dear,"  she  whispered,  as  he  bent  down,  "you 
know  it  all.  Your  dear  uncle — we  were  married  forty 
years — so  sudden,  not  a  word,  only  he  said,  'I'm  going 
to  see  into  things,  Matilda.  I  don't  want  to  be  dis 
turbed.'  So  I  did  not  go  near  him.  He  was  a  just 
man  always— saw  everything  was  right.  Oh,  dear,  I 
wish — I  think,  if  I  could  have  had  a  word — but  it's 
best  perhaps — only  we  were  together  for  a  long  time," 
and  she  turned  her  head  and  cried  softly.  "I  wish  I 
could  have  been  more  of  a  comfort,  but  I'm  not  very 
clever,  and  he  had  such  a  grasp." 

"My  dear  aunt,"  said  Eric  lamely,  "it's  certainly 
awfully  sudden,  but  really  a  mercy  for  him.  A  long 
illness  is  such  a  trial." 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  said.  His  voice  sounded 
to  him  harsh  and  grating,  but  she  took  his  hand  and 
looked  up  with  grateful  eyes. 


78  UNDER   THE   ARCH 

"Yes,  you're  so  right.  He  had  such  a  spirit,  an  ill 
ness  would  have  been  almost  unbearable  to  him." 

"Is  there  anything  you  would  wish?"  said  Eric. 
"Arrangements,  or  anything?" 

Mrs.  Errington  looked  perplexed,  as  though  questions 
tried  her. 

"You  can  do  everything  far  better,  of  course — all 
that  ought  to  be  done — all  respect,  and  the  right  people. 
And  oh!  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  just  what  your  dear  uncle 
would  have  wished.  He  always  settled  everything." 
And  she  cried  quietly  again. 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  said  Eric,  immensely  relieved, 
and  feeling  as  though  he  were  shouldering  her  burdens 
with  unbounded  generosity.  "Leave  it  all  to  me;  don't 
think  of  anything,  and  try  and  sleep." 

"Yes,  dear  Eric,"  said  the  little  woman,  the  life 
long  habit  of  obedience  reasserting  itself.  "And  you 
don't  think  I  need  see  anyone,  nor  take  steps — or  any 
thing,  yet?" 

He  calmed  her;  took  all  responsibility,  and  left  her 
crying  and  dozing  at  intervals. 

Later  he  met  the  doctor,  discussed  his  uncle's  symp 
toms  and  the  form  of  the  death  certificate;  but  after  that, 
when  heavy  footsteps  fell  on  the  oak  floor  and  creaked 
up  the  wooden  staircase,  he  shut  the  dining-room  door, 
and  a  shiver  went  through  him  which  he  was  unable  to 
explain. 

Then  he  sat  down  to  write  to  Elizabeth.  It  was  no 
easy  task.  He  asked  her  to  keep  their  understanding 
a  secret.  Whatever  he  wrote  would  be  seen  by  her 
grandmother  and  aunt,  who,  at  such  a  time,  would  be 
anxious  to  have  news  first  hand.  So  he  wrote : 

"Mv  DEAR  Miss  MAYNELL, — 

"You  will  have  heard  the  sad  news  of  my  uncle's 


UNDER   THE   ARCH  79 

sudden  death.  Will  you  inform  Mrs.  Maynell  of  the 
event  and  tell  her  that  my  aunt  has  not  unduly  suffered 
from  the  shock? 

"Yours  sincerely, 

E.  ERRINGTON." 

He  thought  a  moment,  tore  off  a  second  piece  of  paper 
and  enclosed  it,  on  which  he  wrote: 

"Meet  me  to-morrow  at  the  keeper's  lodge  at  three 
o'clock.— E" 

He  stuck  the  envelope,  and  then,  seeing  a  large  seal 
on  the  table,  he  struck  a  light,  and  as  he  dropped  the 
wax  and  pressed  the  onyx  upon  the  paper  he  saw  with 
pleasure  the  Errington  arms  stand  out  strong  and  clear- 
cut.  The  dignity  of  an  old  name  and  great  possessions 
impressed  him,  and  once  more  he  rejoiced. 

The  interview  with  Elizabeth  was  very  brief.  She 
was  full  of  tenderness  and  affection,  but  he  was  almost 
annoyed  at  the  sympathy  she  lavished  on  his  aunt.  His 
own  work  and  responsibility,  it  seemed  to  him,  should 
have  occupied  her  exclusively.  Elizabeth  was  unwill 
ing  to  talk  of  the  future.  It  appeared  to  her  cruel  to 
dwell  on  the  joy  of  their  own  future  home  in  the  presence 
of  the  sorrow  which  must  send  the  woman  forth  from  its 
shelter  after  such  long  years. 

Altogether  the  meeting  did  not  quite  fulfil  Eric's  ex 
pectation,  and  he  returned  to  the  Hall  irritated.  There 
was  much  business  to  arrange;  the  undertaker  had 
come.  The  agent,  Mr.  McEwen,  was  busy  making  lists 
of  London  and  county  friends  and  associates  in  business. 

He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  frank,  genial  manner,  and 
was  often  dimly  accused  by  Mr.  Errington  of  being 
the  "friend  of  the  tenants."  Certain  it  is  that  after 


Bo  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

dinner  he  had  often  spoken  very  freely  to  the  nephew 
as  to  the  mistakes  he  thought  his  uncle  made  in  dealing 
with  his  estate.  He  was  always  particularly  confidential 
after  some  of  the  old  port — a  wine  which  was  only  pro 
duced  if  one  of  the  partners  of  the  London  bank  came 
down  to  Ilbury  Hall,  or  on  rare  occasions  when  a  country 
neighbor  or  a  Tory  Member  of  Parliament  enjoyed  the 
squire's  hospitality. 

Then  Mr.  McEwen  would  confide  in  the  heir  over  a 
game  of  billiards.  He  would  give  him  disagreeable 
details  in  a  jolly  way,  of  derelict  farms,  tumbledown 
cottages,  always  ending  with  prophecies  of  the  evil  times 
ahead  for  the  successor  to  these  neglected  estates. 

"Now  Lord  Oxenham,  he's  as  near  a  bankrupt  as 
a  man  can  be,  but,  by  Jove!"  said  Mr.  McEwen,  thump 
ing  the  end  of  his  cue  on  the  ground,  "I'd  rather  succeed 
to  those  estates  by  a  long  chalk.  There's  been  some 
money  spent  on  'em.  Farms  are  in  pretty  fair  order. 
But  here!  Why,  the  tenants  only  hang  on  because  they 
know  a  change  is  coming." 

"The  old  man's  got  lots  of  ready,"  said  Eric;  "why 
don't  you  get  him  to  spend  a  bit?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  his  banking  account,"  said 
the  agent;  "I  only  know  he  gives  me  nothing  to  put 
down  on  the  place." 

To-day  Eric  sought  the  agent's  company  as  a  decided 
relief  in  the  dreary  stillness  of  the  great  house.  He  was 
sitting  at  a  large  table,  surrounded  by  directories  and 
packets  of  black-edged  invitation  cards,  which  he  was 
carefully  filling  in. 

"Of  course  I'm  going  by  the  county  lists — the  magis 
trates  and  all  the  principal  people.  I  suppose  most  of 
them  will  come,"  he  said,  looking  up;  "but  your  poor 
uncle  was  not  popular." 

"Well,  we  must  do  the  right  thing,"   said  Eric,   as 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  81 

he  lit  a  cigarette.  The  phrase  had  been  on  his  lips  or 
in  his  mind  many  times  during  the  last  twenty-four 
hours. 

Mr.  McEwen  made  running  comments  on  the  his 
tory  of  the  various  people  to  be  invited,  guessed  their 
income,  the  extent  of  their  estates,  and  summed  up 
their  qualities.  Presently  he  came  to  a  name  on  his 
list  among  the  C's — 

"Cave,  R."  he  read  out.  "That's  the  lawyer,"  he 
explained,  "the  man  who  holds  the  old  man's  will  and 
all  his  papers." 

"By  Jove!"  said  Errington,  "hadn't  I  better  see 
him?" 

"He  was  here  to-day,"  said  McEwen,  "asking  for 
you,  but  you  were  out.  He  is  coming  again  to-mor 
row.  He  says  he  has  all  in  readiness  to  open  the  will 
after  the  funeral." 

"Did  he  tell  you  who  are  my  uncle's  executors?" 
asked  Eric. 

"Mr.  Lamer,  his  late  junior  partner  in  the  bank, 
and  Mr.  Cave  himself,"  said  Mr.  McEwen.  "He's  a 
decent  chap,  rather  starchy  and  stiff.  I  tried  to  get 
him  to  be  a  bit  open  with  me,  but  he  was  very  reticent, 
singularly  so  I  should  say.  But  I  tell  you  what:  I  don't 
care  if  your  uncle's  left  you  the  fortune  of  Croesus,  you'll 
have  to  spend  two  years'  income  on  the  estates,  so  you 
had  better  face  it,  Mr.  Errington.  I've  managed  for 
most  of  the  big  county  families,  and  except  your  uncle, 
who  was  pig-headed  about  advice,  I've  not  known  one 
of  them  who  were  not  obliged  to  spend  their  whole  income 
to  keep  up  their  property  as  it  ought  to  be  managed." 

"That's  hardly  a  recommendation  for  your  manage 
ment,  McEwen,"  said  Eric,  laughing  loudly.     Then  he  re 
membered,  and  stopped  at  once,  and  bent  over  the  invita 
tions  again. 
6 


82  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

The  afternoon  before  the  funeral  Mrs.  Errington 
sent  for  Eric.  She  was  sitting  disconsolately  in  a  black 
dressing-gown  by  her  bedroom  fire.  As  he  came  in 
she  said: 

"I  hope  you  won't  mind,  dear  Eric,  if  I  ask  you  to 
come,  but  they  are  going  to  close,  you  know,  and  I  should 
like  to  see  him  again,  but  I  don't  quite  like  to  go  alone. 
Will  you  come?" 

She  stood  up,  a  helpless  little  figure,  and  held  out 
her  hands  for  support. 

Eric  disliked  the  request,  but  could  not  refuse;  he 
bent  down  and  gave  her  his  arm,  and  with  steps  as  feeble 
as  a  child,  she  tottered  beside  him  into  the  passage.  He 
endeavored  to  dissuade  her  gently,  but  she  was  per 
sistent;  so  he  unlocked  the  door  where  the  dead  lay. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  in  upon  the  room 
through  drawn  blinds,  touching  the  faded  carpet  here 
and  there,  lighting  up  familiar  objects,  and  resting  upon 
the  shining  oak  coffin  which  occupied  the  centre  of  the 
floor,  flecking  with  moving  light  the  white  covering  which 
concealed  that  which  lay  so  still  beneath. 

Mrs.  Errington  did  not  hesitate.  She  went  straight 
to  her  dead  husband  and  asked  Eric  to  draw  back  the 
sheet.  Eric's  hand  trembled  as  he  lifted  the  white  cloth. 
He  possessed  a  strong  repugnance  for  all  ugly  things, 
and  he  dreaded  the  sight  as  likely  to  be  unlovely  and 
repulsive.  But  death  is  kind  to  those  he  claims,  and  the 
only  touch  of  dignity  ever  possessed  by  the  mean,  narrow 
soul,  had  been  accorded  to  him  as  the  old  man  lay  in  his 
long  sleep. 

His  wife  seemed  infinitely  comforted.  She  looked 
at  him  awe-struck  and  admiring,  and  whispered : 

"He  had  a  great  mind;  he  grasped  things  most  people 
couldn't  understand.  I  am  sure  he  is  happy  now." 
And  so,  as  she  gazed,  she  began  to  weave  that  little 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  83 

myth  which  is  the  beautiful  winding-sheet  in  which  so 
many  dead  are  wrapped  in  the  memory  of  their  sur 
vivors. 

The  next  day  was  the  funeral.  A  dull,  drizzling 
mist  had  succeeded  the  clear  cold  weather.  The  car 
riages  had  driven  up,  the  mourners  had  been  duly  sorted 
by  heated,  eager  men  in  black.  The  coffin  had  been 
carried  out  and  placed  in  the  hearse.  The  family  vault 
had  received  the  dead,  and  dry-eyed  mourners  had 
laid  the  old  man  to  rest  "in  the  sure  and  certain  hope" 
which  brought  comfort  to  the  heart  of  the  faithful  little 
woman  who  alone  sorrowed  for  his  loss. 

Luncheon  was  laid  in  the  hall  and  dining-room.  The 
light  streamed  in  again;  and  the  dark  rooms  looked 
almost  convivial  on  their  return. 

Eric  was  full  of  courtesy  and  consideration,  as  the 
notabilities  came  to  him  with  friendly  welcome  to  his 
place  in  their  midst.  By-and-by  the  remembrance  of 
the  occasion  grew  less  vivid,  and  men  ate,  and  talked 
loudly,  and  laughed  by  stealth  like  schoolboys.  They 
discussed  the  property,  the  money  Mr.  Errington  had  left, 
the  probable  jointure  of  the  widow,  and  looked  at  the 
young  man  with  congratulatory  interest. 

Old  Lord  Oxenham,  broad-shouldered,  white-haired 
and  ruddy,  came  to  Eric  and  wrung  his  hand. 

"Hope  we  shall  have  some  good  sport  together," 
he  said.  "Your  poor  uncle  wasn't  a  sportsman,  but 
he  was  always  straight  about  his  foxes.  But  the  place 
will  be  different  now,  and  you'll  bring  a  little  life  about  it." 

Eric  thought  of  Elizabeth,  and  answered  warmly. 
He  liked  this  fine  old  English  gentleman;  and  it  pleased 
him  to  know  how  heartily  he  would  welcome  him  as  a 
nephew. 

The  guests  had  almost  dispersed  when  Mr.  Cave 
came  toward  him. 


84  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Shall  we  get  to  business?"  he  said,  clasping  his 
hands,  and  putting  his  head  on  one  side  like  a  bird. 

"Certainly,  at  once,"  said  Eric,  feeling  that  this  was 
the  point  of  the  day  to  which  all  the  rest  was  mere 
accessory. 

The  agent,  the  lawyer,  the  other  executor  and  Eric 
walked  into  the  library.  The  room  was  undisturbed, 
everything  in  its  place,  the  dead  man's  papers  and  account 
books  lay  on  his  table.  His  letters  were  sorted  in  little 
heaps,  tied  with  pink  tape.  It  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  the  shrivelled  figure  would  no  longer  bend  over  his 
work,  but  was  lying  stiff  and  stark  under  the  stones  of  the 
dark  vault. 

Eric  listened  to  the  lawyer  reading  the  will  in  the 
language  of  the  law,  which  sounds  unnecessarily  in 
comprehensible.  The  gist  he  understood.  Two  thousand 
pounds  per  annum  was  the  jointure  settled  on  Mrs. 
Errington  for  her  life,  to  revert  to  the  estate  on  her  death. 
The  estates  were  left  to  his  heir  at  law,  Eric  Edward 
Errington,  together  with  all  money  invested  in  consols  or 
otherwise,  and  all  furniture,  plate,  horses,  carriages,  busts, 
books,  pictures,  subject  to  the  choice  of  any  dozen  articles 
to  be  selected  by  Mrs.  Errington,  the  usual  small  legacy  to 
executors  and  none  other. 

"Simple,  business-like  and  straightforward,  like  your 
uncle,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I  congratulate  you,  Mr. 
Errington." 

Mr.  McEwen  looked  down  on  the  ground.  He  was 
a  little  flushed ;  he  had  lunched  well. 

"It's  all  right  if  there's  ready  money,"  he  said,  "but 
if  there's  not,  the  place  is  a  white  elephant.  I've  often 
told  you,  Mr.  Errington,  every  farm  will  have  to  be  re 
built  and  every  cottage  too.  It's  not  my  fault  they 
are  a  heap  of  ruins.  You  know  I've  done  my  best." 

The  agent  began  to  detail  the  advice  he  had  given, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  85 

and  wandered  on  to  other  estates  on  which  he  had  spent 
larger  sums  of  money;  but  the  moral  in  each  case  seemed 
to  be  that  the  owner  could  never  afford  to  live  in  his  home 
again. 

Mr.  Cave  looked  sharply  at  him  and  tried  to  curtail 
the  story. 

"Mr.  Errington,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh,  "was 
a  careful  man.  If  you  like,"  he  added,  putting  his 
head  on  one  side,  and  looking  at  Eric,  "we  will  go  into 
the  question  of  his  investments  at  once.  Indeed,  of 
course,  it  will  be  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  probate." 

"Certainly,"  said  Eric,  "the  sooner  the  better." 

He  felt  sure  that  all  was  right,  but  he  would  be  in 
finitely  relieved  when  surmise  was  changed  to  certainty. 
The  house  was  once  more  silent.  The  tables  were 
cleared  and  the  furniture  replaced.  Eric  crossed  the 
hall,  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and  set  out  on  his  way. 
He  took  the  same  road  as  on  that  first  Sunday,  when  he 
set  out  in  the  hopes  of  meeting  Elizabeth.  To-day  his 
face  was  turned  toward  the  red  manor  house,  and  he  had 
the  same  purpose  at  heart.  The  evening  air  was  crisp 
and  invigorating.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  sky  wras 
clear,  and  the  stars  began  to  shine.  The  world  was  a 
good  place,  he  felt,  and  he  intended  to  enjoy  the  luck 
that  came  his  way. 

As  good  fortune  would  have  it,  Elizabeth  was  alone 
in  the  drawing-room.  The  lamps  had  not  been  lit. 
Miss  Maynell  had  a  bad  headache  and  had  gone  to 
lie  down.  Her  grandmother  was  resting,  and  Elizabeth 
was  sitting  on  the  hearth-rug  in  the  firelight. 

When  Eric  was  announced  she  sprang  to  her  feet 
and  gave  him  her  hand,  and  then  as  the  maid  left  the 
room,  he  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  the  upturned 
face.  It  was  a  relief  to  feel  her — young,  warm  and 
living — after  the  dreary  day,  and  to  be  able  to  speak 


86  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

freely  of  all  their  hopes  and  plans  which  were  now  so 
interwoven. 

"When  may  I  tell?"  said  Elizabeth,  shyly  looking 
at  him. 

"Next  week,"  said  Eric.  "I  shall  have  got  all  his 
affairs  straight,  and  shall  know  where  I  am.  Besides, 
it  allows  a  decent  interval." 

Elizabeth  sat  by  him  in  the  firelight  with  supreme 
content.  He  had  never  before  been  so  Render,  or  shown 
her  how  much  he  really  loved  her.  She  was  almost 
dazzled  by  the  glory  of  her  happiness,  and  her  heart  was 
full  of  pity  for  all  who  had  no  experience  of  such  joy. 

Presently  a  rustle  of  stiff  silk  betokened  the  advent 
of  her  aunt,  and  Elizabeth  demurely  moved  to  a  chair 
opposite  her  visitor.  Miss  Maynell  entered  the  room 
with  appropriate  solemnity. 

"My  mother  and  I  take  it  as  neighborly  and  kind  of 
you  to  seek  us  out  on  such  a  day.  We  are  glad  to  welcome 
you,  Mr.  Errington;  I  only  regret  that  my  mother  cannot 
meet  you  herself  to-night." 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Eric  cheerfully.  Then, 
hardly  knowing  what  to  say,  he  added:  "Lord  Oxenham 
was  at  the  funeral,  and  was  most  kind  and  cordial." 

"My  uncle  never  was  on  intimate  terms  with  poor 
Mr.  Errington,  but  the  estates  touch  at  many  points, 
and  I  am  sure  he  will  be  glad  to  have  you  for  his  neigh 
bor,"  said  Miss  Maynell,  who  prided  herself  on  always 
knowing  exactly  the  right  thing  to  say  under  the  most 
difficult  circumstances. 

Elizabeth  listened  as  she  looked  at  the  prim  figure 
so  wrapped  in  conventionality,  and  laughed  inwardly 
with  wild  exultation  to  think  of  her  surprise  when  she 
knew  that  this  important  man,  so  gifted  and  so  great, 
had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  She  knew  her  aunt  scarcely 
realized  that  any  one  was  aware  of  her  existence;  how 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  87 

delightful  it  would  be  to  lay  down  the  law  and  give  her 
opinion,  and  know  that  it  must  be  listened  to,  not  swept 
away  as  wholly  unimportant.  She  would  come  over 
from  Ilbury  and  be  kind  to  her.  She  thought  what  fun 
it  would  be  to  be  able  to  tell  her  what  she  and  her  hus 
band  intended  to  do,  and  know  that  she  could  not  forbid 
her  plans,  and  would  not  dare  to  throw  cold  water  on  his 
wishes. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  LETTER  reached  Errington  from  Mr.  Cave  two  days 
after  the  funeral  to  the  effect  that  his  uncle  had  invested 
£250,000  in  a  group  of  companies  known  as  the  Star, 
that  he  was  making  further  enquiries,  and  would  write 
again  on  the  subject  in  a  day  or  two.  The  information 
was  enough  for  Eric.  The  income  from  such  a  sum 
would  ensure  ease,  if  not  great  riches;  but  added  to  what 
he  would  by-and-by  derive  from  the  estate,  he  was  cer 
tainly  justified  in  making  his  engagement  known  to  Eliza 
beth's  family.  He  determined  that  very  day  to  ask  her 
to  speak  to  her  grandmother,  and  publicly  himself  to 
announce  his  intended  marriage.  He  was  sitting  at 
breakfast  when  he  received  the  lawyer's  letter.  His  aunt 
still  remained  in  her  room  till  a  late  hour.  The  fire  was 
glowing,  and  the  paper  wras  beside  him.  Already  the  house 
began  to  assume  a  more  comfortable  and  inhabited  aspect. 
He  was  about  to  rise  from  his  meal,  when  a  telegram 
was  put  into  his  hands.  He  opened  it  leisurely,  like  a 
man  who  knows  that  he  has  no  bad  news  to  fear,  but 
the  words  made  him  start,  as  he  read : 

"On   my   way   to   see   you.     Important.     R.    Cave." 

He  asked  for  a  time-table,  looked  at  the  hour  the  mes 
sage  was  sent,  and  verified  that  he  could  be  with  him  in 
half  an  hour.  What  could  it  mean?  Was  there  any 
thing  wrong?  He  felt  restless,  troubled,  angry  with 
himself  for  having  any  forebodings  of  evil  tidings.  He 
turned  over  a  thousand  reasons  which  might  bring  the 
lawyer  to  him  in  haste,  and  rejected  them  all. 

88 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  89 

"Confound  the  man!"  thought  Eric.  "Why  not 
spend  a  few  halfpennies  more  and  avoid  this  unbear 
able  suspense?" 

He  paced  the  room,  unable  to  sit  still,  until  he  heard 
the  door-bell,  then  went  out  hastily  to  meet  Mr.  Cave 
in  the  hall.  He  wras  taking  off  his  coat  deliberately, 
and  when  he  greeted  him,  his  face  was  devoid  of  all 
trace  of  expression,  so  that  he  could  guess  nothing.  Mr. 
Cave  put  his  head  on  one  side,  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
The  weather  was  cold,  but  seasonable,  he  murmured, 
as  he  followed  Eric  into  the  library.  Then  the  two  men 
stood  still.  The  pussy-cat  purr  gave  way  to  quick,  short, 
business-like  tones,  as  he  said: 

"Mr.  Errington,  I've  bad  news  for  you,  very  bad. 
I'm  afraid  your  uncle  has  been  unwise,  for  so  astute 
a  man  curiously  unwise.  I  find  the  affairs  of  the  Star 
are  involved  in  this  World  scheme,  about  which  there  has 
been  such  talk  lately;  that  it  is  in  the  hands  of  some  of 
the  worst  gamblers,  such  as  Sugden  and  others  on  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  that  the  whole  sum,  or  nearly 
the  whole,  is  likely  to  be  lost.  Falsified  balance-sheets, 
shifting  balances  at  the  bankers'  and  interchanging 
audit  days ;  it's  the  old  story.  It's  a  bad  job,  a  very  bad 
job.  I  am  really  sorry  for  you,"  and  the  little  man 
felt  what  he  said. 

Eric  never  spoke.  It  is  difficult  to  grasp  that  the 
happiness  we  held  so  firmly  but  a  moment  ago  has  been 
dashed  from  our  hands,  that  one  blow  has  shattered 
our  hopes  and  scattered  our  possessions. 

Was  it  all  gone?  He  remembered  Mr.  McE wen's 
account  of  the  estate,  and  how  the  future  hung  on  this 
invested  fortune.  His  voice  was  husky  as  at  last  he  said : 

"It  seems  incredible.     Are  you  sure  of  your  facts?" 

Mr.  Cave  opened  a  newspaper,  and  pointed  to  a  par 
agraph  which  corroborated  his  statement. 


9o  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"When  your  uncle  died,  I  remember  hearing  from 
McEwen  that  the  servants  told  him  he  had  asked  for 
me,  and  had  said  something  about  selling  out  stock,  and 
mentioned  the  Star.  No  doubt  this  thing  was  on  his  mind. 
He  knew  there  was  danger,  but  it  was  too  late,  too  late," 
he  repeated  meditatively. 

"It  is  inconceivable,"  again  said  Eric. 

A  sort  of  despair  was  rising  slowly,  flooding  his  whole 
mind.  The  thought  of  the  worthless  heritage,  the  gloomy 
house  with  no  money  to  maintain  it,  the  diminished 
influence,  and  long  years  of  necessity  and  economy  opened 
drearily  before  him.  Elizabeth  struggling  with  a  small 
income,  and  a  growing  family,  he  living  a  humdrum 
existence  without  shooting  or  society.  The  prospect 
seemed  intolerable.  For  a  moment  hope  alternated 
with  his  despair.  Others  had  done  it;  they  would  be 
happy  in  their  quiet  way.  Perhaps  they  could  scrape 
£2,000  a  year  together.  He  might  have  two  hunters  if 
they  were  careful.  And  then  the  full  force  of  the  hor 
rible  disappointment  surged  over  him  once  more. 

"Mr.  Errington,"  said  Mr.  Cave,  "will  you  let  me 
hear  what  you  wish?  I  will  meet  the  directors  and 
ascertain  the  exact  state  of  matters,  if  you  instruct  me, 
and  we  will  save  what  we  can  from  the  wreck,  but  that 
will  hardly  be  more  than  a  shilling  in  the  pound." 

Mr.  Cave  got  up  as  he  spoke,  and  held  out  his  hand 
sympathetically.  Eric  took  it,  and  thanked  him.  The 
little  man  looked  up  at  him,  hesitated,  and  then  said: 

"You  will  forgive  me  for  saying  so,  but  you  are  a  young 
man  of  much  promise,  with  a  good  appearance,  a  fine 
old  place  and  a  good  name.  Marry  a  wealthy  woman, 
Mr.  Errington,  and  you  will  put  it  all  straight  again.  A 
fine  young  man  like  you!  Why  the  heiress  will  be  lucky." 

Eric  did  not  smile  as  Mr.  Cave  grinned  and  winked 
facetiously.  He  looked  away  out  of  the  window  across 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  91 

the  park,  and  thought  of  Elizabeth;  and  yet  the  man's 
advice  was  not  resented. 

By-and-by,  as  he  sat  alone,  he  went  over  the  whole 
situation.  It  seemed  only  to  grow  more  intolerable. 
He  read  the  newspaper  paragraph  again  and  again.  There 
was  no  doubt  as  to  the  truth.  Was  there  only  one  way 
of  retrieving  the  situation?  Perhaps  the  man  was  right, 
that  it  was  necessary  to  renounce  happiness  if  duty 
called  him  to  build  back  his  fortune.  But  could  he 
renounce  her?  That  was  the  question.  She  was  so 
charming,  so  fresh,  so  original;  no  one  else  would  ever 
be  like  her.  No  one  could  have  a  dull  moment  in  her 
society.  But  pinching  poverty,  little  mean  economies, 
these  were  ugly  and  repulsive.  His  taste  was  wide  and 
generous.  Some  men  are  made  like  that,  and  cannot 
be  cramped,  he  thought.  He  wished  he  had  not  spoken 
to  Elizabeth.  He  felt  it  would  be  unwise  to  announce 
their  engagement.  He  would  find  her  and  tell  her  so. 
Anyhow,  it  was  best  to  take  time  and  to  be  prudent. 

Telling  Elizabeth  was  a  more  difficult  task  than  he 
had  imagined.  He  remembered  as  he  drew  near  the 
school-house  door,  that  she  was  taking  a  class  of  children 
for  some  carol  singing.  He  could  see  her  as  he  passed 
the  windows,  sitting  at  the  piano,  surrounded  by  the 
group  of  boy  and  girls,  intent  on  teaching  them  the 
quaint  air,  and  stopping  the  music  to  explain  when  the 
singing  must  go  softly.  The  children  listened  eagerly, 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  those  who  admire  their  teacher. 
She  struck  a  chord,  nodded  to  them  to  begin  afresh,  when 
the  door  opened  and  Eric  walked  in.  He  bent  over  to 
her,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Shall  you  have  finished  soon?    I  want  you." 

She  looked  up  quickly,  and  said: 

"They  will  sing  it  once,  and  then  I  will  dismiss  them." 

The  children  sang  it  badly,  but  she  did  not  stay  to 


92  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

correct  their  mistakes.  They  looked  wonderingly  as 
their  lesson  closed  abruptly,  and  then  clattered  off. 

Elizabeth  shut  the  piano,  put  on  her  jacket,  and 
went  out  into  the  school  ground  with  Eric,  and  they 
turned  up  the  lane  which  led  to  the  lodge  gates.  Eric 
began  to  tell  her  his  news.  Elizabeth  listened  in  silence. 
When  he  paused,  she  stopped,  took  his  hand  in  both  hers, 
and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  her  wistful  eyes,  and  said : 

"Eric  dear,  did  you  think  it  would  make  any  difference 
to  me?  I  only  love  you  the  more.  For  myself  I  am 
glad,  it  will  give  me  the  opportunity  of  showing  you  how 
I  love  you  for  yourself,  and  not  for  what  you  have.  I 
have  not  been  brought  up  in  riches,  and  I  will  work  and 
plan  and  economize.  I  really  shall  be  happy  in  doing  it, 
for  I  can  show  you  now  that  you  have  not  made  a  mistake, 
but  you  will  have  at  any  rate  a  useful  wife." 

Eric  felt  irritated.  He  had  not  expected  her  to  take 
his  news  in  this  way,  but  rather  to  lavish  pity  on  himself. 
Wholly  unconscious  of  his  attitude  she  went  on  explaining 
all  that  might  be  done,  how  the  house  could  be  divided, 
how  happy  they  could  be  in  one  corner.  Misfortune 
seemed  really  to  have  cheered  her,  he  thought,  and  he 
resented  her  resignation. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  is  very  dear  of  you 
to  take  the  trouble  as  you  do,  but  I  cannot  feel  as  cheer 
ful.  For  a  man  it  is  a  terrible  blow  to  have  no  possibility 
of  entertaining  his  friends,  or  indeed  of  seeing  them,  no 
hunting  or  shooting,  or  occupation — in  fact,  just  nothing 
— unendurable  monotony  in  a  dead-  and-  alive  country 
place,  amidst  shabby  furniture,  and  with  no  prospect 
of  the  situation  improving  till  my  aunt  dies.  Of  course 
a  woman  would  not  feel  it  so  keenly,  but  for  a  man  the 
trial  is  unbearable." 

Elizabeth  looked  puzzled.  Then  she  said  in  a  per 
plexed  voice: 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  93 

"But  Eric,  dear,  we  have  each  other,  and  we  shall 
be  happy  together.  Of  course,  I  understand  it  is  much 
worse  for  you,  much,  much  worse.  It  is  selfish  of  me 
not  to  have  seen  that;  but  to  me  the  happiness  of  trying 
to  make  you  happy  is  such  an  absorbing  prospect  that 
I  am  afraid  it  blocks  the  view  of  everything  else  in  my 
mind." 

"My  dear  child,  how  foolish  you  are!"  said  Eric. 
"Of  course  I  feel  the  same,  only  a  man  has  so  many 
things  to  consider,  so  much  to  face  that  a  woman  can't 
understand,  that  I  feel  I  must  have  time  to  look  at  the 
situation  all  round." 

When  Elizabeth  parted  from  Eric,  she  felt  that  some 
thing  had  jarred  upon  her.  She  did  not  want  to  analyze 
what  it  was  that  was  wrong,  but  she  told  herself  he  was 
wearied  and  worried,  that  his  mind  was  not  balanced, 
but  that  once  he  had  recovered  from  the  shock,  all  would 
be  well.  She  was  disappointed  that  he  had  again  made 
her  promise  to  say  nothing  of  their  engagement. 

Eric  felt  curiously  irritable  after  his  interview.  How 
odd  it  was  that  she  did  not  in  the  least  grasp  his  position. 
She  ought  to  make  it  easier  for  him.  She  ought  not  to 
require  to  have  matters  so  plainly  put  before  her,  or  at 
any  rate  she  ought  to  have  felt  that  it  would  be  right  to 
offer  to  release  him.  But  she  knew  nothing  of  the  ways 
of  the  world,  or  the  trial  of  the  situation  to  a  man  like 
him.  Then  the  pendulum  of  this  mood  would  swing 
back,  and  he  would  feel  how  charming  she  was,  how 
delicate,  and  how  devoted. 

The  next  day  McEwen  spent  the  morning  with  Eric. 
He  went  minutely  into  accounts,  and  showed  him  the 
estate  rent  roll,  a  sum  which  would  only  cover  the  neces 
sary  expenditure  and  Mrs.  Errington's  jointure;  and 
once  more  impressed  on  Eric  the  absolute  necessity 
of  either  letting  the  hall  or  shutting  up  the  place. 


94  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

In  the  evening,  as  he  sat  alone,  the  full  force  of  the 
situation  was  spread  out  before  him.  He  was  unac 
customed  to  worry.  He  had  hitherto  sufficient  income 
to  enable  him  to  amuse  himself.  He  knew  that  he 
owed  a  good  deal  more  than  he  could  pay,  but  he  never 
dealt  seriously  with  his  affairs.  Now  his  thoughts  ran 
on  death  duties,  the  upkeep  of  landed  property,  the 
amounts  necessary  for  any  self-respecting  man  with  a 
position  to  maintain.  He  took  a  pencil  and  paper  and 
went  wearily  over  the  figures,  expenditure  on  estates 
and  buildings,  say  £4,000;  agency  and  audits,  say  £500; 
death  duties  and  probate,  a  sum  he  could  not  yet  ascertain ; 
gardens  and  grounds,  £400;  game  and  keepers,  £600. 

He  paused,  held  his  pencil  between  his  ringer  and 
thumb;  of  course  it  was  a  necessary  expenditure;  No 
one  could  live  in  the  country  without  it.  Then  he  went 
on  writing.  Stables,  £500.  What  remained?  So  far 
as  he  could  see  from  McEwen's  statement,  nothing. 
There  was  a  chance  of  something  being  recovered  from 
the  Star,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  it  was  remote.  He 
lay  back  and  thought,  and  as  he  smoked  he  looked  into 
the  fire.  He  had  made  a  mess  of  things,  and  spoken  pre 
maturely  to  Elizabeth,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  under 
stand  the  situation,  or  realize  how  this  miserable  loss  had 
changed  everything. 

"Of  course  I  might  never  have  dreamt  of  accept 
ing  it,  but  if  she  had  offered  to  release  me,  it  would  have 
been  right,  and  shown  more  understanding." 

Then  he  fell  to  thinking  of  her,  but  somehow  her 
moral  qualities  and  her  personal  charm  receded  into 
shadow.  The  irksome  want  of  money  loomed  so  large. 
He  got  up  and  stood  before  the  fire.  The  very  change 
of  attitude  seemed  to  bring  decision. 

"Yes,  it  is  damnably  hard  on  both  of  us,"  he  thought. 
"But  it  is  best  done  now  before  we  both  suffer.  Poor 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  95 

little  girl!"  he  thought,  and  he  felt  for  a  little  gold  locket 
which  Elizabeth  had  given  him  at  his  request,  a  very 
small  and  simple  trinket,  which  had  contained  her  mother's 
hair,  but  into  which  she  had  put  one  of  her  own  dark 
locks,  and  on  the  opposite  side  had  written  in  tiny  char 
acters,  "For  my  beloved,  from  E.  M." 

"Yes,  she  was  a  woman  any  man  would  love,"  he 
thought,  as  he  held  the  little  token  in  his  hand.  "I 
could  not  face  the  thought  of  another  claiming  her; 
and  yet  —  He  closed  the  locket  and  replaced  it. 

"For  the  present  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done;  I 
must  get  away  and  look  at  it  all  from  a  distance,"  and  his 
resolve  already  seemed  to  have  assumed  the  proportions 
of  heroism. 


"There  is  nothing  else  for  us  just  now,  Elizabeth; 
you  will  have  seen  this  quite  plainly.  I  know  I  needn't 
ask  you  to  be  brave.  We  both  need  all  the  courage  we 
can  muster." 

Eric  was  standing  in  the  lane.  Elizabeth  was  seated 
on  a  low  wall,  which  divided  one  of  the  Ilbury  coverts 
from  the  road.  Her  face  was  very  white.  Her  lips  were 
pressed  tightly  together,  and  she  looked  like  someone 
who  had  just  recovered  consciousness  after  a  period 
of  insensibility.  She  looked  at  Eric  while  he  spoke,  as 
though  she  hardly  understood  his  words.  He  spoke 
quickly,  eagerly,  as  though  he  wanted  to  convince  himself 
as  well  as  his  hearer. 

"Things  may  be  better  by-and-by,"  he  said.  "Who 
knows?  I  may  come  back  to  claim  you.  In  any  case, 
my  darling,  I  shall  never  love  anyone  else.  I  may  have 
to  marry  someone  with  money,  like  the  Hornden  girl, 
but  you  will  be  my  ideal  woman  till  I  die — my  affinity — 
and  I  shall  find  you  again,  Elizabeth." 


96  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

She  looked  up  dazed,  as  though  the  fluency  of  his 
speech  bewildered  her. 

"But  if  you  love  me,  Eric,  really  love  me  as  I  love 
you,  can't  we  be  happy  together,  even  though  we  may 
never  be  able  to  live  at  Ilbury,  and  never  be  rich?" 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Eric,  "you  don't  understand. 
There  are  responsibilities  resting  on  me,  the  people, 
the  place.  I  must  fulfil  the  calls  of  my  position  as  a 
landowner.  Oh,  Elizabeth!  don't  make  it  harder  to  do 
right." 

"I  don't  want  to  make  anything  hard  for  you.  I 
would  die  readily,"  said  Elizabeth,  "if  my  little  body 
could  be  a  bridge  over  which  you  could  pass  to  happi 
ness.  Only  I  can't  quite  see  why  you  need  suffer  so. 
It  seems  to  me  it  might  be  so  much  simpler  to  accept 
the  loss  of  money,  but  not  lose  the  fortune  of  our 
love." 

"My  dear  Elizabeth,  you  must  trust  me,"  said  Eric, 
with  a  wild  longing  to  end  the  interview. 

She  looked  so  forlorn  and  so  sad  that  a  mad  desire 
came  to  him  to  take  her  to  his  heart  and  kiss  back  the 
bloom  in  the  beautiful  white  face  that  turned  to  him  so 
pitifully;  but  he  refrained,  and  tried  to  believe  that  his 
self-command  was  good. 

"Elizabeth,  I  can't  bear  it.  I  have  to  leave  by  the 
night  train.  I  go  out  into  the  wilderness  without  you, 
strong  in  the  sense  that  it  is  right,  but  the  world  will 
never  be  the  same." 

She  had  risen.  There  was  a  silence.  He  hesitated. 
Should  he  take  one  last  long  kiss?  Should  he  once 
more  know  the  sweetness  of  her  yielded  love  ? 

Footsteps  on  the  road  startled  him.  He  dropped  Eliza 
beth's  hand,  and  looked  round.  A  man's  figure  came  down 
the  lane  with  swinging  walk,  and  in  a  moment  they  both 
recognized  Michael  Fane. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  97 

"  Good-bye,  Miss  Maynell,"  said  Eric,  taking  her 
hand  and  lifting  his  hat. 

Michael  was  greeting  them  now,  and  as  he  shook 
hands  with  Elizabeth,  Eric  gave  one  long  meaning  glance, 
as  he  stood  behind  the  broad  shoulders  and  looked  into 
her  eyes. 

"Good-bye,  Fane,"  he  said,  and  he  was  gone. 

Courage  is  characteristic  of  woman,  the  courage  to 
conceal,  to  bear  and  to  go  on.  Men  may  lead  the  forlorn 
hope,  may  stand  by  the  colors,  and  never  flinch,  may 
grasp  the  hand  of  death  and  never  waver,  when  honor 
and  duty  hold  him  to  his  post;  but  woman  can  smile 
when  the  wolf  gnaws  beneath  into  the  living  flesh,  or 
laugh  when  she  holds  the  asp  to  her  white  breast.  Hers 
is  the  courage  of  endurance,  the  power  to  be  wounded 
and  never  murmur,  to  hide  the  wound  through  long  days 
of  suffering  and  go  on  fighting. 

The  rain  was  dripping  steadily  upon  them,  and  to 
Elizabeth  it  seemed  as  though  the  tears  of  the  world 
for  her  great  heartache  fell  on  her  cheeks,  the  tears  she 
could  not  shed. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  A  sudden  under 
standing  had  come  to  Michael;  he  saw  the  situation 
revealed.  It  seemed  to  him  he  must  have  known  it 
all  before,  so  vivid  was  the  impression.  He  tried  to 
retrace  its  origin,  remembered  that  on  this  very  spot  he 
had  met  Eric,  and  had  saved  his  life.  The  change  he 
had  seen  in  Elizabeth  was  now  explained.  She  stood 
there  still  and  white  against  the  brown  hedge,  with  the 
gray  sky  above  her,  and  he  realized  that  she  had  passed 
through  the  portal  which  separates  childhood  from 
womanhood.  Their  eyes  met,  and  Elizabeth  instinctively 
felt,  though  she  could  not  have  analyzed  the  sensation, 
that  he  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time  as  a  man  looks  on 
a  woman. 


98  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Little  Betty,  you  are  in  trouble,"  he  said,  "can  I 
help  you?" 

"No,  Michael,  not  now.  Some  day,  perhaps,  but 
not  now.  I  will  walk  as  far  as  the  Mill  with  you,"  she 
said,  and  they  turned  down  the  lane  together. 

That  evening  Michael  talked  to  his  mother  about 
Elizabeth,  told  what  he  had  seen  and  what  he  believed 
she  felt  toward  Eric. 

"I  don't  trust  him,"  said  Michael.  "I  can't  help 
feeling  he  has  some  mean  streak  in  him.  He  has  been 
playing  fast  and  loose  with  her.  Anyhow,  I  know  she 
is  unhappy.  What  do  you  think,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Fane  paused  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it,"  she  said.  "Elizabeth  cares 
for  him  and  she  is  miserable." 

Michael  looked  up  quickly. 

"Can't  you  get  her  to  see  she  is  making  a  mistake? 
Poor  little  girl;  he  is  not  a  man  she  can  trust.  What 
can  we  do,  mother?" 

"Wait,"  she  answered;  "that  is  all.  A  fire  burns 
low  if  it  is  not  fed,  although  sometimes  it  smolders  a 
long  time.  But  patience — that  is  the  only  thing." 

"But  it's  terrible  she  should  be  made  to  suffer,"  he 
exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  with  infinite  sadness,  for  a  woman 
recognizes  the  first  heart-cry  of  her  son,  and  interprets  it 
as  unfailingly  as  she  does  his  baby  wail,  which  he  lies  at 
her  breast. 

It  was  already  twilight  when  Elizabeth  walked  home 
ward.  The  ploughed  fields  showed  brown  against  the 
gray  sky  and  the  hedges  were  marked  in  strong  hard  lines. 
The  rain  had  ceased  and  stillness  held  the  world  as  it 
prepared  for  night.  She  paused  when  she  came  to  the 
crossways,  and  stood  where  she  had  parted  from  Eric 
an  hour  ago.  She  remembered  that  but  a  few  days  had 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  99 

passed  since  she  had  been  greeted  with  wishes  for  a  happy 
year  as  she  went  down  the  village  street  and  had  turned 
to  use  the  same  familiar  phrase,  which  seemed  to  hold 
for  her  such  a  beautiful  hidden  meaning.  Now  the  same 
year  lay  before  her,  but  she  looked  out  on  the  wintry 
fields  with  other  eyes. 

"January  is  here,"  she  thought;  "cold,  wintry  Janu 
ary,  with  nothing  to  mark  it  but  growing  light  in  the 
gray  sky.  Then  February  will  come  with  longer  days, 
and  the  earliest  primroses,  and  March  with  daffodils  and 
wild  flowers." 

She  saw  them  in  her  mind's  eye  already,  a  carpet  of 
golden  color  under  the  brown  of  the  wood  copse;  and 
April  with  thrush  and  blackbird,  when  the  lanes  would 
be  filled  with  the  scent  of  violets ;  and  May.  Her  thought 
paused.  May  with  its  clear  skies,  its  flowers  and  delicate 
green.  In  that  month,  Eric  had  told  her,  they  would 
choose  the  holy  day  which  should  make  them  man  and 
wife. 

Again  she  saw  the  year  stretched  out  before  her  as 
she  had  thought  it  of  that  morning,  like  a  long  sheltered 
lane.  In  May  the  way  would  lie  between  banks  of 
bluebells  and  campion  and  bright  bronze  oak  leaves, 
and  white  sheep  with  little  long-legged  lambs  would 
look  down  on  them  through  the  fresh  green  hedges  as  they 
passed  rejoicing.  How  sheltered  and  secure  the  year  had 
looked !  How  quiet  and  peaceful  the  long  lane  of  months 
that  lay  before  her  then. 

But  the  lane  had  vanished  from  her  mind;  and  in 
stead  of  the  ordered  days  and  months  and  seasons,  a 
pathless  wilderness  stretched  out  before  her.  The 
familiar  way  had  gone.  There  seemed  no  landmark. 
She  knew  no  friend  to  guide  or  help  her;  there  was 
nothing  but  a  wide  gray  space,  like  the  width  of  the 
winter  sea. 


ioo  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Was  this  the  real  land  through  which  she  must  travel  ? 
Must  she  walk  on  and  on  alone  through  the  measure 
less  time  that  lay  ahead?  She  could  no  longer  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  familiar  milestones  of  next  year  and  the 
next.  Old  thoughts  and  habits  seemed  to  slip  away 
from  her.  A  few  hours  ago  she  had  looked  onward  with 
the  certainty  of  ordered  peace.  She  had  seen  the  path 
straight  ahead,  with  never  a  cross-road  where  she  must 
needs  stop  and  choose  the  way;  and  now  she  felt  like  a 
child  led  out  of  a  warm,  lighted  room,  to  see  for  the  first 
time  the  "vast  and  silent  night,"  and  for  a  moment  she 
was  afraid.  The  height  and  depth  and  width  of  life 
frightened  her.  It  was  but  for  a  moment,  for  like  a 
child  she  tightened  her  grasp  upon  the  Hand  she  had 
held  securely  through  the  years  of  her  young  life.  The 
sense  of  a  trackless  future  died  down,  and  once  more 
life  came  to  her  with  its  every-day  outlook,  and  the  year 
stretched  out  ahead  with  its  old  metes  and  bounds. 

She  turned  across  the  field  which  led  to  the  Manor 
House.  A  bent  figure,  carrying  a  bundle  of  firewood, 
came  toward  her.  The  twigs  were  sharply  drawn  against 
the  winter  sky,  but  the  wearied  figure  was  lost  in  shadow 
beneath  the  burden. 

Elizabeth  recognized  old  Betsy  from  the  cottage  by 
the  gate,  and  quickened  her  steps  to  meet  her.  The 
movement  seemed  to  bring  relief. 

"Why,  Betsy,"  she  cried,  as  she  drew  near,  "let  me 
carry  that;  it  is  too  heavy  for  you";  and  putting  her 
strong  arms  around  the  bundle,  she  lifted  it  and  slung 
the  rope  that  bound  the  load  over  her  shoulder,  jerking 
the  faggot  into  its  place  on  her  back. 

"Lor',  Miss,"  said  Betsy,  "it  ain't  fit  as  you  should 
do  like  that.  Indeed  it  ain't.  Whatever  would  yer 
lady  grandma  say?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Elizabeth,  as  she  turned 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  101 

toward  the  cottage  gate.  "I'm  glad  you've  got  this 
load;  I  didn't  know  you  were  allowed  to  collect  fire 
wood." 

"Well,  Miss,  you  see,  the  old  squire  'e's  lying  asleep 
now,  and  the  young  squire  will  be  much  more  koind, 
they  tells  me,  to  us  poor  folk;  and  the  old  squire,  'e'l 
understand  better  now  nor  what  'e  did,  poor  mon." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  the  wrinkled  face  and  the  kind 
eyes  dim  with  years.  Old  Betsy's  life  had  been  hard 
and  full  of  pain. 

"Don't  you  sometimes  wish  things  had  been  dif 
ferent,  Aunt  Betsy?"  she  asked,  as  she  looked  at  her, 
hoping  to  gain  from  her  long  acquired  knowledge  of 
sorrow  some  strong  support. 

"No,  dear,  "answered  the  old,  thin  voice.  "No,  deary, 
I  doan't.  It'll  arl  cum  right,  I  knows  that.  There's 
the  three  children  asleep  yonder  in  the  churchyard.  I 
knows  'ow  safe  they  is,  and  I'd  rather  they  was  there. 
We  shall  soon  be  arl  together  now.  An'  there's  the  old 
parson  as  was  as  good  a  friend  to  me  as  any  ouman  ever 
'ad,  'e's  over  there  too.  What  the  Lord's  took  'E's  just 
stored  up  for  me,  an'  'E's  keeping  it  arl  till  I  cum, 
'E  is." 

The  slow,  gentle  monotony  of  the  tone  brought  no 
comfort  to  Elizabeth. 

"She  has  nearly  got  to  the  end  of  it  all,"  she  thought, 
as  she  laid  the  fagots  down  in  the  little  out-house  and 
turned  to  the  garden  gate. 

It  was  getting  dark,  and  as  the  lock  closed  with  a 
sharp  click,  once  more  a  storm  of  sorrow  swept  across 
her  heart;  she  felt  she  could  not  walk  the  hidden  path 
of  submission  along  which  old  Betsy  trod.  She  did 
not  know  that  souls  that  are  called  out  into  the  pathless 
wilderness  may  find  light  and  color  they  could  never 
see  in  quiet,  sheltered  lanes. 


102  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

That  night,  when  Martha  kissed  her  in  her  bed  be 
fore  she  blew  the  candle  out,  she  felt  her  face  was  wet 
with  tears,  but  she  pretended  she  had  not  seen  them, 
only  her  kiss  was  perhaps  more  tender,  and  when  she 
left  her  she  knelt  longer  than  usual  at  her  evening 
prayers. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  spring  old  Mrs.  Maynell  died.  The  flame  of 
life  burnt  low  in  the  cold  days,  and  a  blast  of  chill  east 
wind  extinguished  the  feeble  flicker. 

The  hand  of  the  great  angel  effaces  all  memories 
save  those  of  gratitude  and  pity,  and  Elizabeth  remem 
bered  only  how  helpless  she  had  been  through  the  winter 
months,  and  how  she  had  welcomed  her  presence  more 
than  ever  before;  and  her  heart  was  sore  when  she 
came  back  after  the  funeral  to  the  empty  house  which 
had  so  long  been  home. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Maynell  solemnly  summoned 
Elizabeth.  She  sat  by  the  fire  in  her  grandmother's 
sitting-room,  looking  very  thin  and  stiff  in  her  new  crepe. 
Elizabeth  instinctively  felt  that  this  interview  would 
decide  her  future. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,"  said  her  aunt,  "to  ascertain 
what  your  views  are  as  to  your  place  of  residence.  Your 
great- uncle  has  offered  me  a  small  house  on  the  estate, 
as  your  dear  grandmother's  death  will  make  it  impossible 
for  me  to  live  here.  I  am,  of  course,  willing  to  continue 
the  responsibility  of  the  charge  my  dear  brother  left 
me  when  you  came  to  us.  I  cannot,  however,  be  blind 
to  the  fact  that  you  have  not  the  submission  to  authority 
that  I  feel  is  due  from  the  young  to  older  relations,  and 
that  unless  you  are  prepared  to  accept  my  guidance,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  undertake  the  charge." 

She  looked  at  Elizabeth  as  though  she  felt  she  had 
dealt  a  final  blow  to  insubordination. 

"I  am  not  ungrateful,  Aunt  Harriet.  I  know  what 

103 


io4  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

you  have  done  for  me,  but  may  I  ask  if  it  is  true  that 
I  have  a  little  money  of  my  own  ? " 

Her  aunt  raised  her  eyebrows  and  clasped  her  hands 
as  though  praying  for  patience. 

"Yes,  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "you  have  £250  a  year, 
the  entire  fortune  left  by  my  dear  brother." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her.  She  felt  desperate;  she 
must  make  a  dash  for  freedom.  It  was  now  or  never. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  which  sounded 
to  her  far  away  and  unreal,  "please  don't  think  I  am 
ungrateful,  but — I  know  all  you  have  done  for  me,  and 
how  troublesome  I  have  often  been,  but — I  want  a  home 
of  my  own.  I  was  twenty-one  in  November,  and  I 
should  like  to  live  with  Nanny,  and  be  alone.  I  should 
only  be  a  trouble  to  you,"  added  Elizabeth  somewhat 
more  feebly. 

There  was  a  horrible  pause.  Miss  Ma'ynell  sat  motion 
less. 

"So  this  is  the  return,"  she  said,  in  tones  unnatur 
ally  slow,  "for  years  of  patient  work  upon  your  character 
and  education — the  return  for  a  happy  home  and  self- 
denying  devotion.  You  want  to  live  alone,  and  you 
are  twenty-one,  alone  with  a  servant?"  The  voice 
grew  slightly  louder.  "I  am  afraid  your  desire  shows 
how  far  you  are  from  realizing  the  dignity  and  modesty 
befitting  a  girl  of  your  station  and  education,  and  that 
this  desire  springs  from  no  good  motive.  I  may  be 
wrong;  I  hope  I  am." 

For  a  moment  the  temptation  was  strong  to  defend 
her  position,  but  with  the  despair  of  one  who  grasps 
at  liberty  by  whatever  means,  she  said : 

"I  am  sorry,  Aunt  Harriet.  I  want  to  make  my 
own  life  now,  and  I  think  we  will  talk  of  plans  later." 

Miss  Maynell  looked  up  quickly.  She  too  realized 
what  Michael  Fane  had  seen;  that  Elizabeth  was  a 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  105 

child  no  more.  She  rose  stiffly,  determined  to  be  at 
any  rate  mistress  of  the  situation. 

"I  hardly  thought  that  on  the  very  morrow  of  the 
day  your  grandmother  was  laid  to  rest,  this  would  have 
been  the  tone  adopted  by  the  girl  for  whom  we  have 
both  sacrificed  so  much.  Elizabeth,  please  withdraw." 

The  girl  turned  and  left  the  room,  too  thankful  that 
the  deed  was  done,  to  resent  the  accusations  of  ingrati 
tude  to  which  she  had  grown  callous,  so  often  had  they 
been  laid  to  her  charge.  She  ran  down  the  passage  to  her 
room.  Martha  was  sitting  by  the  window,  mending 
stockings. 

"Oh,  Nanny,  Nanny,"  said  the  girl,  throwing  her 
self  on  her  knees  and  burying  her  head  in  the  woman's 
lap.  "Don't  leave  me.  You  are  the  only  person  I 
love,  and  who  loves  me";  and  she  sobbed  with  quick, 
breathless  gasps  like  a  child. 

"Why,  what  silly  notions  have  you  got  into  your  little 
'ead?  Leave  you?  not  if  I  never  touched  another 
farthing's  wage,  and  'ad  to  keep  myself  on  my  bit  of 
savings  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

Later,  when  she  grew  calmer,  Elizabeth  gave  the 
history  of  the  interview  with  her  aunt.  Nanny  sat  very 
still  and  listened.  Then  after  a  pause  she  said: 

"I  think  you  was  right.  Summer  flowers  die  in  Novem 
ber  winds,  and  I  believe  she'd  just  wither  you  up." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Elizabeth  settled  to  leave 
Ilbury.  What  should  she  do? 

"Why,  go  to  London,  of  course,"  said  Michael,  "and 
throw  herself  into  social  work."  Her  great  opening  had 
come,  the  moment  for  action,  when  her  principles  were 
to  turn  to  practice. 

Mrs.  Fane  remonstrated  that  she  was  young,  and 
that  it  seemed  wrong  to  make  so  deliberate  a  choice 
when  she  had  seen  so  little  of  the  world. 


io6  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Nonsense,"  said  her  son;  "you  wouldn't  say  that 
if  she  were  going  to  be  married.  It's  the  only  step  that's 
irrevocable;  and  yet  no  one  ever  begs  any  \voman  who 
is  going  to  marry  a  rich  man  to  pause  and  take  her  time. 
Elizabeth  has  all  the  enthusiasm  now  to  make  her  a 
useful  worker.  Don't  hinder  her,  let  her  have  her  head." 

Elizabeth  did  not  need  persuasion.  She  pictured 
to  herself  a  life  interesting  but  ascetic,  full  of  beautiful 
restraints  and  simplicity,  but  lived  in  the  centre  of  the 
real  world  where  the  heart  of  humanity  beats.  She 
saw  visions  of  large  buildings  of  conventual  austerity, 
of  quiet  rooms,  where  work  in  the  interest  of  those  who 
lived  in  the  ugly  streets  outside  was  devised  amidst 
harmonious  surroundings. 

But  Michael  had  no  such  visions.  Indeed,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  Elizabeth  had  placed  her  useful 
ness  in  such  a  setting.  He  went  to  London  and  dili 
gently  interviewed  the  heads  of  Settlements  and  Mission 
Houses,  but  came  to  the  conclusion  that  her  \vork  would 
be  restricted  and  her  outlook  narrowed,  and  that  she  had 
better  receive  her  own  impressions  and  mix  with  his  set 
where  she  would  learn  from  the  first  the  principles 
which  can  make  social  work  of  real  value. 

He  came  back  from  London  triumphant.  He  had 
found  the  very  place,  a  corner  house  in  Marshom  Street. 
One  side  looked  on  the  court  where  her  work  would  lie, 
for  it  was  arranged  that  she  was  to  collect  the  rents  in  that 
district,  in  order  to  give  her  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
people,  and  show  her  the  manner  of  life  lived  in  a  slum, 
and  so  to  gain  experience  in  the  housing  question.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  house  was  what  he  vaguely  called 
"quite  a  good  street."  A  nice  elderly  woman  kept  the 
place.  She  was  clean  and  undertook  the  cooking. 
Martha  wrould  wait  on  Elizabeth,  and  she  would  be 
really  in  clover.  Besides  which,  Miss  Osterley,  the 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  107 

lady  who  was  on  all  their  committees  and  thoroughly 
understood  all  their  methods,  lived  in  the  same  house 
on  the  upper  floor.  What  could  be  better?  She  could 
show  her  the  ropes,  and  map  out  all  her  work  and  look 
after  her ;  and  their  own  place  of  meeting  for  consultation 
and  business  was  next  door. 

What  was  the  house  like?  Was  it  furnished?  Oh 
yes,  very  simply.  He  could  not  remember  much  about 
it,  but  very  tidy. 

Some  months  later.  The  afternoon  of  her  arrival 
remained  in  Elizabeth's  memory  among  the  tragedies 
of  life. 

"The  dron'-room,  miss,"  said  a  portly  woman,  as 
she  threw  open  the  door  of  a  little  front  parlor  furnished 
with  a  mahogany  sideboard  covered  with  crochet  mats 
surrounding  a  plated  biscuit  box  and  a  tea  caddy,  a 
mantel-piece  of  colored  slate,  the  vain  imitation  of  more 
hideous  marble,  on  which  stood  glass  candlesticks  re 
flecting  the  afternoon  sunshine  in  their  cut  pendants,  a 
horsehair  sofa,  and  some  fans  on  the  walls  trimmed  with 
plush.  The  centre  table  was  spread  for  tea.  A  yellow 
tea-pot  cosy,  eloquent  of  poisonous  tannin,  crowned 
the  centre.  The  cloth  was  placed  corner-wise,  and  cakes 
were  laid  upon  more  crochet  mats. 

Such  was  the  setting  of  the  picture  of  her  new  life, 
and  when  Elizabeth  was  all  alone,  after  she  had  gasped  a 
few  words  of  thanks  and  appreciation  to  her  smiling 
landlady,  she  sat  down  before  the  tray  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

The  place  was  intolerable.  The  same  sun  that  was 
shining  through  the  odious  white  curtains  was  shin 
ing  now  on  the  broad  avenue  of  beech  trees,  and  on  the 
gray  stone  house  so  quiet  and  so  strong,  lighting  the 
calm  long  rooms  with  the  portraits  of  those  who  had 
lived  their  lives  in  that  same  home.  All  the  dignity 


io8  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

and  peace  that  were  enshrined  there  came  vividly  before 
her.  And  then  she  thought  of  Eric  with  his  fastidious 
taste.  She  could  feel  his  contempt  for  the  mean  sur 
roundings  which  now  made  the  background  of  her  life. 
She  bowed  her  head  and  rested  it  on  the  little  common 
cloth  and  cried  till  it  ached,  and  her  eyes  felt  as  if  they 
had  got  into  their  sockets  by  mistake  and  were  many 
sizes  too  big  for  their  swollen  lids. 

A  knock  at  the  door  roused  her,  and  a  very  small 
woman,  dressed  in  a  plain  coat  and  skirt  with  a  felt 
wide-awake  hat,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

Elizabeth  got  up  and  endeavored  to  hide  the  too  evident 
signs  of  her  discomfiture.  She  begged  the  little  lady 
to  come  in,  and  said  as  cheerfully  as  she  could : 

"You're  Miss  Osterley,  I  am  sure.  Mr.  Fane  told 
me  I  might  look  to  you  to  show  me  how  to  work.  Do 
come  in." 

Miss  Osterley  held  out  a  hand  covered  with  a  well- 
worn  dog-skin  glove. 

"Yes,  that's  my  name,"  she  said  heartily  in  some 
what  jerky  tones,  "and  I'm  glad  you've  come.  We're 
very  short  of  workers,  and  there's  lots  to  do,"  and  she 
sat  down  suddenly,  as  though  moved  by  clockwork. 

"I  hope  you're  strong,"  she  said,  looking  at  Elizabeth's 
pale  face  and  red  eyes.  "Workers  get  so  soon  knocked 
up  here.  You  will  have  to  take  care  and  live  by  rule; 
not  do  too  much  one  day  and  be  able  to  do  nothing  the 
next,  but  you'll  have  to  learn  the  methods,"  and  she 
gave  a  short  laugh. 

Elizabeth  began  to  ask  eagerly  about  the  people. 
Were  they  poor?  What  could  she  do? 

"We  don't  give  anything  away,"  said  Miss  Osterley 
decidedly;  "we  help  them  to  help  themselves.  We 
don't  believe  in  anything  else.  We  try  to  teach  them 
what  they  have  a  right  to  claim,  and  help  them  to  claim 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  109 

it.  We  have  a  strike  on  now,  among  the  lightermen; 
many  of  them  live  in  this  district.  We  are  doing  all  we 
can  for  them.  Are  you  good  with  children?  That  will 
be  your  work  at  present,  and  that  brings  you  in  contact 
with  the  women  too.  Of  course  we  meet  dreadful  prob 
lems.  It  isn't  easy,"  and  Miss  Osterley  looked  puzzled 
and  anxious. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  the  children?"  said  Elizabeth; 
"shall  I  teach  in  the  Sunday-school?" 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  said  Miss  Osterley,  "  we  have  no  Sunday- 
school;  we  do  not  work  with  any  church.  Mr.  Martin 
a  clergyman,  and  Mr.  Summer  a  curate,  both  belong 
to  our  branch  of  the  Union,  but  we  are  all  free  to  our 
owrn  beliefs,  and  personally  I  am  not  a  Christian." 

She  jerked  out  the  last  words  with  some  amount  of 
aggressiveness,  but  Elizabeth's  long  intimacy  with  the 
Fanes  had  brought  her  in  contact  with  very  free  opinions, 
and  she  made  no  comment. 

"You  were  very  fortunate  to  get  these  rooms,"  said 
Miss  Osterley,  looking  round  cheerfully.  "I  had  to 
wait  ever  so  long  before  I  got  mine,  and  I  lodged  in 
the  buildings,  which  were  very  noisy.  And  these  are 
wonderfully  comfortable  and  bright." 

First  impressions  were  still  strong  in  Elizabeth's 
mind.  She  smiled  a  rather  sickly  smile,  and  said: 

"Yes,  I  daresay  it's  difficult  in  this  neighborhood 
to  get  anything,"  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  be 
enthusiastic. 

Miss  Osterley  explained  that  she  had  forgotten  to 
tell  Elizabeth  about  the  work,  which  would  be  hers, 
of  collecting  the  rents  in  the  court,  rushed  upstairs, 
and  pelted  down  again  with  little  red  books  in  her  hands, 
and  breathlessly  began  to  explain  the  system. 

"It's  splendid  training,"  she  said;  "you  just  go  in 
and  out  on  business,  and  you're  able  to  make  friends," 


no  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

and  then  she  began  a  long  description  of  how  the  system 
had  started,  and  when  she  finished  Elizabeth  began  to 
feel  that,  if  all  the  world  had  set  about  collecting  each 
other's  rents,  most  calamities  would  have  been  avoided. 

At  last  she  said  good-night,  and  added  that  she  had 
two  committees  to  attend.  Both  appeared  to  be  organized 
as  a  living  protest  against  some  evil,  the  enormity  of 
which  Miss  Osterley  endeavored  to  explain  hastily  to 
Elizabeth.  Then  she  went  off,  but  in  a  few  moments 
came  back  again  to  beg  her  to  be  sure  to  see  her  in  the 
morning  before  she  went  out;  there  were  some  more 
important  things  she  would  like  to  tell  her.  And  then, 
like  a  whirlwind,  she  was  out  again  and  down  the  street. 

As  the  days  wore  on  Elizabeth  began  to  find  com 
pensation  for  the  disappointment  in  her  surroundings. 
Independence  was  sweet.  Her  work  was  full  of  interest, 
and  she  thought  it  absorbing.  But  perhaps  she  hardly 
realized  how  much  pleasure  she  gained  from  the  fact  of 
being  in  the  midst  of  people  who  discussed  plans  which 
affected  the  well-being  of  a  whole  nation,  and  yet  she 
was  appealed  to  for  advice,  her  opinions  were  gravely 
considered,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  someone  of  im 
portance  in  her  world,  and  to  her,  as  to  many  others, 
such  importance  was  delightful. 


CHAPTER  X 

Miss  MAYNELL  prided  herself  on  the  fact  that  she  never 
neglected  a  duty.  Her  niece  was  settling  in  London, 
and  it  was  clearly  right  that  she  should  be  satisfied  as 
to  the  propriety  of  her  surroundings.  So  she  decided 
to  travel  to  town,  and  wrote  to  tell  Elizabeth  of  her 
determination. 

The  letter  brought  consternation  into  the  little  lodging. 
There  was  no  spare  room,  so  one  must  be  engaged  at 
the  Station  Hotel,  which  was  some  way  off.  . 

"That  is  a  comfort,"  said  Elizabeth  to  Nanny,  when 
they  were  discussing  arrangements,  "for  she  will  have 
to  be  gone  some  hours  at  any  rate." 

Toward  five  o'clock  on  the  appointed  day  Miss  May- 
nell  drove  into  Marshom  Street  in  a  four-wheeled  cab, 
which  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  small  crowd  of  gaping 
children. 

"Let  me  carry  yer  bag,  lidy,"  shouted  some  big  boys. 

"Arst  me  fer  ter  ring  the  bell,"  said  a  small  and  dirty 
girl. 

"Go  away,  go  away  at  once,  children,"  snapped  Miss 
Maynell;  but  their  attentions  redoubled,  and  only  on 
the  appearance  of  Elizabeth  at  the  door  did  the  small 
mob  disperse. 

"If  your  work  does  not  make  these  wretched  children 
more  orderly,"  said  Miss  Maynell,  after  she  had  dryly 
pecked  Elizabeth's  cheek,  "I  should  say  you  were  wasting 
your  time  in  this  miserable  neighborhood." 

"It's  early  days,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Elizabeth. 

The  sound  of  the  familiar  voice  had  already  robbed 


ii2  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

her  of  all  sense  of  freedom,  and  she  felt  as  slavishly 
abject  as  in  the  old  school-room  days,  when  she  awaited 
the  reprimand  which  was  never  withheld. 

Her  aunt  made  no  comment  on  the  house,  but  ate 
her  tea  in  rebuking  silence.  Nanny  came  in  and  out, 
but  she  too  was  treated  to  cold  disapproval.  Elizabeth 
tried  to  glean  small  bits  of  village  news,  and  asked  after 
the  people  at  home,  but  the  conversation  was  not  sustained 
and  her  efforts  were  not  encouraged.  Then  she  asked 
about  the  new  cottage ;  was  it  comfortable  ? 

"Quite  sufficiently  so,"  said  her  aunt.  "My  wants 
are  few,  and  I  only  desire  to  live  as  a  gentlewoman  should, 
and  to  honor  the  good  name  I  bear.  I  have  no  taste 
for  modern  eccentricities,  nor  do  I  desire  to  make  a 
show  of  my  charitable  intentions." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Elizabeth  cut  the 
cake  and  offered  it  to  Miss  Maynell.  She  tasted  it 
and  laid  it  down  with  the  air  of  one  who  would  rather 
die  than  disclose  the  reason  why  she  did  not  eat  it. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"    asked  Elizabeth. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  her  aunt,  and  relapsed  into  in 
jured  silence. 

"I  am  so  sorry;   what  is  wrong?     Do  tell  me." 

"It  is  made  with  bad  butter.  I  should  have  thought 
Martha  would  have  remembered  I  do  not  eat  bought 
cakes,  but  that  is  a  trifle,  of  course,  like  all  my  other 
likes  or  dislikes,  in  her  eyes  and  yours." 

Elizabeth  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Her  indigna 
tion  overcame  her  fear. 

"Why  did  you  come,  Aunt  Harriet?  You  don't  care 
to  see  me;  I  am  nothing  to  you,  I  never  have  been.  You 
never  liked  me,  and  you  always  showed  me  you  didn't." 

The  long  pent-up  sense  of  injustice  burst  its  bounds 
at  last,  and  rushed  out  with  a  great  flood  tide  to  sweep 
away  the  breakwaters  of  conventionality  and  fear  which 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  113 

had  restrained  it  hitherto,  as  she  poured  out  in  quick 
short  sentences  her  deep  sense  of  her  aunt's  injustice. 

Miss  Maynell  looked  aghast.  She  sat  bolt  upright 
at  the  little  table  and  listened  to  Elizabeth  as  though 
she  was  in  a  dream.  At  last,  when  Elizabeth  paused, 
she  regained  her  presence  of  mind,  and  said : 

"I  have  taken  a  long  journey  in  order  to  assure  myself 
of  your  welfare.  Is  impertinent  abuse  to  be  my  reception 
in  return  for  my  interest  in  you  ?  I  have  felt  that  although 
there  was  much  in  your  disposition  to  be  regretted,  you 
had  at  any  rate  that  well-bred  reticence  which  has  always 
characterized  us,  but  I  find  I  have  been  singularly  mis 
taken.  And  indeed,  since  you  left  Ilbury,  I  have  learned 
with  much  humiliation  how  you  have  allowed  your  name — 
our  name — to  be  lightly  coupled  with  a  gentleman  whom 
your  own  ladylike  feeling  should  have  told  you  was  only 
amused  at  your  too  evident  liking  for  his  company." 

Elizabeth's  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  hand  trembled 
as  she  held  her  cup. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said.     "Please  explain." 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  said  her  aunt,  "you  know  as 
well  as  I,  that  neither  your  grandmother  nor  I  were 
aware  that  you  were  constantly  walking  with  Mr.  Er- 
rington,  and,  indeed,  I  am  glad  she  should  have  been 
spared  the  humiliation,  although  I  am  left  to  bear  it 
alone,"  said  Miss  Maynell,  wrinkling  her  forehead, 
and  casting  her  eyes  on  the  ground  with  her  most  ag 
gravating  expression. 

"And  why  should  I  not  walk  with  Mr.  Errington?" 
said  Elizabeth,  holding  her  head  very  stiffly.  "I  imagine 
that  you  know  that  if  I  did  so,  he  sought  my  company, 
and  that  I  did  not  dog  his  steps.  You  must  know  me 
better  than  to  imagine  I  should  behave  as  silly  girls  do 
with  a  curate. 

"It  does  not  seem  probable  that  he  attaches  great 
8 


ii4  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

importance  to  your  friendship,  as  he  is  about  to  marry 
Miss  Hornden,"  said  Miss  Maynell,  suddenly  raising 
her  eyes  and  looking  at  Elizabeth. 

Was  this  the  reason  she  had  come?  The  thought 
flashed  through  Elizabeth's  mind  before  she  had  grasped 
the  news  she  brought.  If  it  were  so,  she  should  be 
disappointed. 

"Is  he  really?"  she  answered.  "Miss  Hornden  is 
a  great  heiress,  and  very  beautiful,  I  believe.  Will  you 
let  me  cut  some  bread,  as  you  do  not  like  cake  ?  " 

The  indifference  of  her  manner  fairly  deceived  her  aunt. 

"Heartless,  utterly  heartless,"  she  thought,  and  she 
continued  her  lecture  upon  propriety,  good-breeding 
and  gratitude,  feeling  that  she  had  played  her  trump 
card,  but  had  lost  the  trick. 

"If  your  good  name,"  she  continued,  "is  of  no  value 
to  you,  remember  we  bear  the  same;  and  I  trust  that 
the  regrettable  lack  of  consideration  which  you  have 
shown  for  the  proprieties  of  well-bred  life  will  not  now 
be  transferred  to  another  channel,  and  I  warn  you,  as 
you  have  chosen  this  independent  life,  to  be  careful  not 
to  be  equally  reprehensible  in  your  conduct  toward  Mr. 
Fane." 

The  thin  voice  rapped  out  the  sentence  like  a  hammer 
beating  on  a  wire  string. 

The  news  which  her  aunt  had  brought  had,  however, 
begun  to  sweep  over  Elizabeth's  heart,  swamping  all 
other  feeling  and  making  all  other  things  insignificant. 
She  only  wanted  now  to  be  rid  of  her.  The  flame  of 
her  indignation  had  burnt  out.  After  all,  she  was  really 
free.  WThat  was  the  quarrelsome  little  woman  to  her? 
She  almost  felt  a  pity  for  her  wrinkled  yellow  face,  sur 
mounted  by  her  ugly  black  bonnet,  and  clad  in  bristling 
crepe,  with  a  heart  that  could  not  mourn,  because  it 
could  not  love. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  115 

"You  need  have  no  fear  on  that  score,"  she  said  coldly; 
and  Miss  Maynell  felt  that  her  mission  was  ended. 

After  a  little  more  desultory  conversation  she  returned 
in  a  cab  to  her  hotel,  and  Elizabeth  went  back  to  her 
daily  interests  and  tried  to  believe  that  her  love  for  Eric 
was  dead,  and  fought  hard  and  prayed  often  that  she 
might  think  of  him  no  more. 

From  time  to  time,  during  the  summer,  she  saw  Eric's 
name  in  the  newspaper.  He  had  dined  at  some  public 
dinner;  he  had  been  to  a  levee  or  a  court  ball;  twice  she 
read  that  he  had  been  one  of  the  guests  in  a  great  country 
house  party,  where  Lady  Hornden  and  her  daughter 
were  also  staying.  The  sun  had  been  darkened  for  her 
all  that  day.  Try  as  she  would,  she  could  think  of 
nothing  but  Eric.  She  pictured  him  sitting  at  the  piano, 
talking  to  this  girl  as  he  had  talked  to  her,  telling  her 
of  his  visions,  unfolding  to  her  the  meaning  of  his  music, 
and  then  going  out  tall  and  strong  among  the  men,  no 
dreamer  of  dreams,  but  the  embodiment  of  youth  and 
power;  and  the  dingy  court  looked  more  dreary,  and  the 
little  room  more  mean,  and  the  lifelong  separation  seemed 
more  utterly  intolerable. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer,  when  the  baking  pavements 
made  the  sunshine  a  misfortune,  tired  in  body  and  wearied 
in  spirit,  news  came  to  her  which  rekindled  a  spark  of 
hope.  The  evening  paper,  as  usual,  was  lying  on  the 
table  near  her  tea-tray.  She  listlessly  turned  its  pages, 
when  she  was  arrested  by  a  headline,  "Marriage  of  Miss 
Hornden  to  Sir  John  Cliffe."  The  account  of  the  wedding 
followed,  a  description  of  the  dresses  of  the  bride  and 
bridesmaids,  a  list  of  presents,  and  half  a  column  of  the 
names  of  the  guests.  Eric's  name  was  among  them. 
So  he  had  not  married  the  heiress.  The  words  danced 
before  her  eyes.  The  world  looked  already  different. 
The  afternoon  sunshine  made  her  glad.  She  no  longer 


n6  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

felt  tired.  She  wondered  why  he  had  not  married  Miss 
Hornden.  Could  it  be  that  after  all  he  knew  that  love 
was  the  only  fortune  worth  winning?  It  never  occurred 
to  her  as  possible  that  any  man  could  be  preferred  before 
him.  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  glass  and  arranged 
her  hair.  She  looked  worn ;  her  face  was  very  white. 

"I  will  rest  more,"  she  thought.  She  hardly  ad 
mitted  to  herself  that  she  grasped  the  hope  of  his  return 
as  drowning  men  cling  to  the  spar  of  a  ship,  and  that 
already  it  seemed  possible  that  she  might  yet  be  saved  from 
the  shipwreck  of  her  happiness. 

So  joyous  was  her  mood  that  when  Michael  came 
later  to  take  her  to  a  committee  meeting  he  thought 
as  he  left  her  that  night : 

"Thank  God,  the  cloud  is  beginning  to  lift;  after 
all,  wholesome  work  is  the  best  medicine  for  every  ill, 
and  she  will  forget." 

And  then  he  stopped  his  thought;  he  would  not  allow 
himself  to  wander  on,  for  he  knew  that  in  the  maze  of 
his  mind  it  led  to  a  spot  where  happiness  was  enshrined, 
and  he  dared  not  go  in  search  of  it,  for  he  had  not  yet 
found  the  clew. 


"It's  war,"  said  Michael,  walking  into  Elizabeth's 
little  room  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  "War,"  he 
repeated  slowly.  "We  can't  grasp  what  it  means,  it 
is  so  long  since  it  has  touched  us.  It's  the  bitter  fruit 
we  are  reaping  of  that  shameful  raid,  and  we  are  going 
to  have  a  tougher  job  than  they  dream  of,  for  the  Boers 
are  sharpshooters  and  hard  riders,  and  from  their  baby 
hood  have  learned  the  veldt  as  a  child  learns  its  alphabet." 

"Is  it  final?"  said  Elizabeth,  getting  up  quickly  from 
her  low  chair  by  the  window.  "Is  it  absolutely  certain? 
It  seems  almost  impossible.  We  have  thought  about 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  117 

soldiers  so  long  as  playthings,  haven't  we?  What  have 
we  to  gain  in  return  for  the  misery  it  will  bring?"  And 
her  mind  ran  over  the  names  of  women  she  knew  whose 
sons  had  "gone  for  soldiers." 

She  looked  out  over  the  street  where  the  bright  October 
sunshine  was  making  dazzling  white  patches  on  the 
grimy  pavement.  The  screaming  voices  of  children, 
fresh  from  school,  shrill,  harsh  and  discordant,  made 
a  babel  of  familiar  sound  in  the  court.  It  all  seemed  so 
commonplace.  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  hun 
dreds  were  feverishly  turning  the  pages  of  their  news 
papers,  feeling  that  the  day  of  doom  had  dawned,  and 
that  before  them  stretched  out  the  dreary  waste  of  part 
ing  and  the  terrors  of  the  unknown. 

"Poor  things!"  she  said,  half  to  herself.  "There 
will  be  many  aching  hearts  to-day."  And  almost  in 
voluntarily  she  remembered  with  thankfulness  that 
Eric  was  not  a  soldier. 

But  it  was  policy,  and  not  people  that  absorbed 
Michael. 

"If  the  mud  in  South  Africa  did  not  hold  these  cursed 
baubles,  and  men  did  not  think  their  souls  well  lost 
for  money,"  he  said,  "we  should  care  nothing  for  suze 
rainty.  If  Griqualand  had  no  diamond  fields  we  could 
afford  to  let  the  Boers  feed  their  cattle  on  the  veldt.  My 
God!  what  an  awful  responsibility  to  incur!  It  will 
be  no  light  thing.  It's  going  to  be  a  longer  struggle 
than  anyone  dreams.  They  will  call  out  the  reserves. 
Think  what  that  must  mean;  the  tearing  up  of  peaceful 
men  from  peaceful  surroundings.  It's  horrible,  horrible ! " 
And  he  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Well,  I  suppose  if  we  were  patriotic,"  said  Elizabeth, 
"we  should  be  shouting  'Avenge  Majuba'  with  the  rest; 
but  a  war  of  revenge  does  not  seem  very  glorious  to  me 
from  a  Christian  standpoint." 


ii8  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Don't  speak  of  that,"  said  Michael;  "it's  profanity 
to  those  who  believe  in  it.  The  god  of  battles  is  not 
the  Christian's  Christ,  and  yet  every  parson  and  minister 
in  the  country  will  be  applauding  our  patriotism  and 
slanging  the  Boers,  and  blowing  the  war  flame  into 
stronger  blast;  people  who  would  not  have  a  moment's 
enthusiasm  for  the  battle  wrhich  we  try  to  fight  at  home 
for  clean  living  and  decent  homes  for  their  own  country 
men.  Bah — we  are  a  nation  of  hypocrites." 

"It's  too  late,  Michael,"  said  Elizabeth  slowly.  "If 
we  who  are  Socialists  speak  inadvisedly  with  our  lips 
now,  when  the  country  is  in  this  ferment,  we  shall  do 
much  more  harm  than  good.  Do  try  and  keep  quiet 
about  it  all,  and  when  you  can't,  come  and  vent  it  here. 
But  don't  talk  like  that  to  people  who  won't  under 
stand  you  and  will  only  believe  you  are  a  traitor." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  my  talking  wildly?"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  and  speaking  softly.  "I  will  be  careful, 
don't  fear;  but  I  can't  be  silent  when  I  feel  I  must 
speak." 

He  turned  again  to  the  paper  with  a  groan.  She 
looked  at  his  strong  figure  and  his  firm  limbs  and  thought 
he  was  cast  in  much  the  same  mould  as  those  sturdy 
men  who  were  fighting  in  South  Africa,  possessed  by 
the  belief  of  the  righteousness  of  their  cause. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  they  both  turned  to 
greet  the  new-comer — an  old  man  with  a  face  as  white 
as  his  hair,  sharp  features,  sad,  deep-set  eyes,  a  firm 
mouth,  almost  hard  in  repose,  but  with  a  smile  which 
transformed  his  whole  expression. 

Elizabeth  made  a  step  forward  and  took  his 
hand. 

"It's  war,  dear  Father  Martin,"  she  said.  "You 
prophesied  rightly.  It  seems  almost  incredible." 

"I  knew  it  must  come,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  knew 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  119 

it."  He  laid  his  hand  on  Michael's  shoulder  with  an 
affectionate  gesture.  "And  it's  a  bad  day,  a  bad  day. 
It's  not  the  misery  only,"  he  said,  with  a  far-away  look, 
as  he  stood  staring  out  over  the  chimney-pots,  "it's  much 
worse;  it's  the  demoralization  that  follows.  At  first  people 
are  sobered;  it's  a  new  step;  there  are  partings,  and 
danger,  and  dread.  By-and-by  they  grow  accustomed 
to  all  that,  and  then  will  come  stupid  inflation,  vulgar 
national  swagger;  and  by-and-by  everybody  will  grow 
callous  about  the  shedding  of  blood,  and  it's  a  scream 
for  false  glory.  It  often  becomes  pitifully  degrading 
to  national  character,  all  the  more  so  because  there  is 
something  alluring  in  the  thought — a  victorious  army — 
and  the  flag — and  English  honor — and  those  who  know 
only  the  sound  of  marching  feet,  and  see  keen  young 
soldiers  in  smart  clothes  and  hear  bands  playing,  feel 
the  swing  of  the  thing  and  are  carried  away  by  it.  But 
the  reality,  which  they  never  see — that  is  the  horror." 

"I  dread  it  too,"  said  Michael.  "It  diverts  men's 
minds  from  living  issues  at  home.  Pressing  questions 
must  wait  until  the  war  is  over.  The  people  can  go 
on  as  they  are,  and  mugs  as  they  have  been,  and  every 
one  feels  absolved  from  responsibility. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "it's  a  channel  which  diverts 
the  flood  for  a  bit,  and  when  it  comes  rushing  back  it 
swells  it  tenfold  and  makes  it  more  dangerous  and  more 
turbid.  Work  will  be  short,  and  money  slack,  and 
taxes  high.  That's  the  home-coming — the  end." 

"But,  Father  Martin,"  said  Elizabeth,  "don't  they 
say  it  will  open  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey? 
Won't  it  make  new  room  for  our  people?" 

The  old  parish  priest  shook  his  head. 

"I  think  we  Socialists  have  found  the  truth  that  the 
greater  and  more  real  the  patriotism  the  wider  our  sym 
pathy  for  all  humanity.  By-and-by  we  shall  understand 


120  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

better  that  God  has  made  of  one  blood  all  the  nations 
of  the  world." 

Maurice  Martin,  whom  Elizabeth,  and  indeed  most 
of  his  friends,  called  Father  Martin,  was  one  of  the 
best-known  men  in  the  poorest  part  of  that  district. 
For  thirty-five  years  he  had  toiled  in  this  densely  popu 
lated  parish.  He  had  worked  wrhen  the  slums  were 
unnoticed,  and  when  no  journalist  described  their  hor 
rors  and  no  enthusiasts  founded  settlements  or  clubs. 
He  had  watched  children  grow  to  men  and  women,  and 
had  patiently  labored  often  in  spite  of  apparent  failure 
and  constant  fack  of  funds,  and  that  intellectual  lone 
liness  which  is  the  lot  of  those  whose  work  absorbs  their 
daily  lives,  leaving  them  no  time  for  social  intercourse. 
But  in  the  wilderness  of  misery  where  he  had  spent  his 
life  Father  Martin  stood  in  the  mind  of  every  docker, 
car  driver  or  coster,  no  matter  how  drunken  and  worthless 
he  might  be,  as  the  very  embodiment  of  good.  He  had 
found  work  for  them  when  times  were  bad;  he  had  set 
them  up  again  when  they  had  failed.  Nobody  was 
ever  so  bad  as  to  be  hopeless.  Nobody  failed  so  often 
but  that  he  was  willing  to  give  them  another  chance. 
He  helped  them  in  health,  he  sat  by  them  in  sickness, 
he  married  them,  he  baptized  their  children,  buried 
their  dead,  but — 

"  'E  could  go  for  a  bloke  like  a  good'un,"  they  said; 
and  his  look  as  he  "pulled  a  man  out  of  a  pub'  when 
his  wife  was  dying"  was  one  the  man  never  forgot.  "I 
tell  you,  I'd  rather  'e'd  'ave  fetched  me  one  in  the  oie," 
was  the  way  he  described  it. 

The  other  clergy  looked  at  him  with  suspicion.  He 
was  a  pronounced  Socialist;  he  spoke  in  an  unguarded 
way  at  ruri-decenal  meetings  as  to  the  responsibilities 
of  the  rich  and  the  misuse  of  money.  He  was  known 
to  hold  strong  views  on  the  income  of  bishops,  and, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  121 

worse  than  all,  he  associated  with  men  at  Socialist  meet 
ings,  and  even  admitted  them  into  his  house,  who  were 
dissenters  and  agnostics. 

It  was  also  rumored  that  he  was  careless  about  the 
boundaries  of  his  parish,  and  had  on  more  than  one 
occasion  visited  a  sick  woman  who  came  to  his  church 
but  did  not  live  within  his  spiritual  beat;  and  when  the 
vicar  of  this  parish  very  properly  remonstrated  he  had 
said: 

"My  dear  fellow,  these  people  have  souls;  we  can't 
look  upon  them  as  pheasants  to  be  preserved,  nor  con 
sider  our  parishes  as  so  many  coverts." 

The  story  had  been  much  commented  on  in  clerical 
circles  in  that  part  of  London,  and,  as  usual,  Mr.  Martin 
had  been  severely  criticised. 

Father  Martin  had  a  sincere  respect  for  Michael. 
He  saw  in  him  qualities  which  won  respect.  And  for 
Elizabeth  he  had  an  almost  paternal  affection,  which 
she  warmly  returned,  for  he  had  been  an  anchor  to 
her  faith  in  the  midst  of  the  flood  of  humanitarian  sym 
pathy  which  recognized  no  unseen  agency. 

Michael,  as  a  reverent  agnostic,  admired  the  old  man's 
faith,  although  he  had  no  part  in  his  belief.  He  recog 
nized  the  power  of  his  inspiration,  and  loved  him  for 
his  single-hearted  devotion  to  God  and  man. 

Some  months  after  this  conversation  took  place  in 
her  lodging,  Elizabeth  read  in  the  local  newspaper, 
which  was  sent  to  her  each  week  from  the  post-office 
at  Ilbury,  that  the  Yeomanry  were  volunteering  and 
that  Mr.  Errington  was  among  those  who  would  go  to 
the  front.  For  a  moment  the  suddenness  of  the  blow 
stunned  her,  and  she  sat  dry-eyed  holding  the  county 
newspaper,  unable  to  feel  or  to  think;  and  then  a  sense 
almost  of  thankfulness  came  to  her  that  in  the  midst 
of  danger  and  hardship  she  might  still  think  of  him  and 


122  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

pray  for  him.  He  was  still  hers;  and  the  peril  of  war 
seemed  less  horrible  than  the  great  chasm  which  but 
a  few  weeks  ago  she  believed  had  divided  them  for  ever. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  on  the  spring  morning  when 
Eric  sailed  Elizabeth's  heart  was  sore;  but  she  tried 
honestly  to  turn  to  her  work  with  renewed  sympathy 
for  those  who,  like  herself,  were  constantly  racked  with 
anxiety  but  who  were  obliged  to  face  daily  life  with  a 
brave  show  of  courage. 


CHAPTER  XI 

KATHERINE  HORNDEN  was  always  quoted  as  one  of 
the  lucky  beings  on  whom  Providence  with  a  lavish 
hand  had  showered  all  that  can  make  life  delightful. 

As  soon  as  she  appeared  in  London,  chaperoning 
mothers  whispered  to  each  other  as  they  sat  in  the  corners 
of  ballrooms,  that  she  would  succeed  to  a  large  fortune 
when  she  was  twenty-one;  those  who  had  sons  said  she 
how  lovely  she  was,  and  how  well  she  had  been  brought 
up;  but  those  who  had  only  daughters  looked  on  her 
less  favorably,  and  criticised  her  mother,  whom  they 
pronounced  frivolous  and  artificial. 

But  their  praise  or  blame  affected  Katherine  but 
little.  Everything  was  new  and  exciting;  everyone 
appeared  delighted  to  see  her;  and  she  suddenly  realized 
that  she  was  a  person  of  importance  in  the  eyes  of  many 
people. 

Her  mother  was  enjoying  the  early  autumn  of  life, 
a  considerable  remnant  of  good  looks  and  a  large  for 
tune,  left  to  her  by  her  husband.  Her  house  in  Park 
Lane  was  renowned  for  its  dinners,  and  her  beautiful 
castle  at  Lentham  was  celebrated  for  its  Italian  gardens, 
and  the  luxury  which  she  provided  for  her  guests.  Lady 
Hornden  had  few  enemies  and  many  whom  she  called 
friends,  that  is  to  say,  many  people  who  cared  to  know 
her,  and  enjoy  her  hospitality,  for  she  was  always  kind 
when  it  cost  her  no  personal  inconvenience. 

She  honestly  believed  that  she  had  sacrificed  her 
self  to  the  welfare  of  her  child,  and  certainly  she  had 
watched  over  her  health  and  her  looks  with  real  assi- 

123 


124  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

duity.  When  the  little  girl  was  ill,  specialists  were 
summoned  to  advise  on  the  most  trivial  ailments.  She 
was  surrounded  by  anxious  governesses  and  nurses,  and 
her  nurseries  and  school  rooms,  her  carriage  and  her 
ponies  were  the  envy  of  every  other  governess  and  nurse 
in  the  park  or  the  square  where  Katherine  played.  But 
the  child's  enjoyment  was  tempered  by  the  drawback 
of  being  the  object  of  such  extreme  anxiety,  and  she 
would  gladly  have  exchanged  her  possessions  and  privileges 
for  an  hour's  unrestrained  wholesome  play. 

When  she  returned  from  the  sea-side,  Lady  Horn- 
den  was  in  despair  because  she  was  brown  and  freckled. 
A  skin  doctor  was  consulted,  and  henceforth  she  was 
smothered  in  gauze  veils  when  she  dug  her  castles  in 
the  sand. 

As  regards  her  education,  Lady  Hornden  had  been 
very  particular  about  her  French  and  her  German,  and 
from  time  to  time  she  questioned  her  governesses  as 
to  her  progress.  She  had  during  Katherine's  child 
hood  taken  every  precaution  that  no  foolish  or  romantic 
ideas  should  be  allowed  to  get  dominion  over  her.  Once 
she  had  discovered,  almost  providentially,  that  an  English 
governess  had  been  talking  wildly  and  putting  silly  ideas 
into  the  girl's  head  as  to  her  future,  the  way  she  should 
spend  her  money,  and  utterly  unpractical  and  really 
dangerous  principles  about  poor  people.  Lady  Hornden 
had  acted,  however,  with  great  promptitude,  and  the 
mischief  was  stopped,  although  Katherine,  who  was 
impressionable  and  imaginative,  had  been  quite  bitten 
by  the  "romantic  twaddle,"  as  Lady  Hornden  described 
it,  and  her  action  was  only  just  in  time. 

When  the  year  came  for  her  to  be  presented  and  make 
her  appearance  in  society,  her  mother  determined  that 
she  would  spare  no  pains  to  make  her  debut  a  success. 
Indeed,  she  spent  almost  as  much  time  on  the  details  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  125 

Kathcrine's  dress  as  on  her  own;  and  Katherine  was  as 
ready  to  enjoy  ordinary  pleasure,  and  as  eager  to  be 
amused,  as  any  other  girl  who  has  good  looks,  and  money, 
and  all  that  makes  life  desirable. 

But  a  few  weeks  only  served  to  reveal  to  Lady  Horn- 
den  the  rocks  which  lay  ahead.  Young  men  began 
without  loss  of  time  to  endeavor  to  engage  her  daughter's 
affections.  Toward  the  end  of  the  summer  the  question, 
she  realized,  had  become  acute.  She  returned  from 
the  last  ball  of  the  season  in  a  state  of  bewildered  per 
plexity. 

She  was  sincerely  anxious  to  "do  the  best"  for  Katherine, 
and  that  night,  having  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and 
dismissed  her  maid,  she  sat  down  to  think — an  occu 
pation  in  which  she  seldom  indulged.  She  had,  of 
course,  discussed  the  merits  of  possible  sons-in-law  with 
intimate  men  friends,  in  whose  judgment  she  trusted, 
but  now  she  wanted  to  pass  them  quietly  in  review  and 
really  settle  her  own  mind  who  she  would  encourage 
or  discard  before  leaving  London. 

There  was  young  Lord  Munro.  Of  course  he  had 
the  advantage  of  being  a  Duke's  son;  that  was  cer 
tainly  in  his  favor,  but  then  he  had  no  money.  She 
heard  that  he  played  heavily  at  the  Turf  Club  every 
night,  and  then,  although  no  sensible  woman  expected 
any  young  man  to  be  an  ascetic,  still  there  were  stories 
afloat  which  showed  that  even  his  admiration  for  Katherine 
had  not  yet  brought  about  any  readjustment  of  his  private 
life,  for  Lotty  Case  appeared  in  new  diamonds  every 
two  or  three  months,  and  all  the  world  knew  that  they 
were  the  advertisement  of  his  devotion. 

Then  there  was  Mr.  Fordwick.  He  was  a  clever 
and  rising  man.  They  said  he  would  be  sure  to  be  in 
the  Cabinet  some  day,  and  he  would  have  a  good  income 
by-and-by,  when  he  succeeded  his  father,  Lord  Severton. 


126  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

But  he  was  plain  and  silent,  and  Katherine  disliked 
him,  and,  after  all,  girls'  tastes  must  be  consulted. 

Then  her  mind  travelled  quickly  to  a  name  around 
which  gathered  many  disturbing  elements,  Eric  Er- 
rington.  He  was  singularly  good-looking  and  fascinat 
ing,  but  his  uncle  had  speculated  away  all  his  money; 
he  had  a  big  white  elephant  of  a  place  which  would  only 
be  an  incubus,  and  he  had  not  sufficient  position  to 
counterbalance  the  disability  of  poverty.  He  was  un 
doubtedly  brilliant,  and  very  popular,  but  her  whole  mind 
said  that  this  thing  could  not  be.  She  remembered  how 
eagerly  Katherine  welcomed  Eric  when  he  called,  or  asked 
her  to  dance,  how  pink  she  had  grown  that  very  evening 
when  he  came  to  take  her  to  supper,  and  she  felt  that 
she  must  take  care  that  things  did  not  go  any  further. 
It  seemed  a  relief  to  have  settled  that  point,  for  it  left 
her  free  to  turn  to  a  thought  which  brought  far  more 
security  to  her  mind,  and  it  was  a  real  rest  to  begin  to 
think  about  Jack  Cliffe. 

She  wondered  she  had  not  arrived  long  ago  at  the 
conclusion  that  he  really  was  the  best  man.  He  had 
no  great  position  to  give  Katherine,  but  he  came  of  a 
very  old  family,  and  a  very  large  family  too.  Half 
the  big  names  in  London  were  his  relations.  It  would 
be  a  great  thing  for  Katherine  to  be  thus  surrounded 
by  powerful  people.  It  would  be  a  solid  marriage.  He 
was  a  man  everybody  liked.  The  regiment  was  devoted 
to  him,  she  had  heard  that  a  thousand  times.  He  cer 
tainly  was  not  very  rich,  but  then  he  was  not  very  poor. 
He  was  in  the  right  set  and  knew  everybody. 

The  more  Lady  Hornden  thought  about  it  the  more 
the  idea  commended  itself  to  her  sense.  No  girl  could 
possibly  fail  to  like  him,  he  certainly  was  delightful. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  clever,  but  that  did  not  matter. 
Girls  with  money,  like  Katherine,  did  not  need  to  marry 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  127 

a  genius.  She  had  hovered  round  this  thought  many 
times  before,  but  to-night  she  decided  that  Jack  was 
really  the  best  man  by  far;  it  must  be  Jack. 

Katherinc,  sleeping  in  her  little  bed  in  her  pretty 
bedroom,  was  supremely  unconscious  of  her  mother's 
decision.  She  certainly  liked  Eric  better  than  any  man 
who  came  to  the  house,  but  then  they  were  all  charming, 
and  so  long  as  she  had  a  good  time,  she  was  almost  as 
happy  with  one  as  with  another. 

By-and-by,  when  they  left  London,  she  did  not  perceive 
that  Eric  came  less  to  the  house  and  Jack  more  frequently, 
that  whenever  they  went  to  Lentham  it  was  Jack  who 
always  happened  to  turn  up,  and  Lady  Hornden  was 
always  equally  surprised  when  she  received  a  telegram 
to  say  he  was  coming.  And  so  it  happened  that  one 
evening,  walking  under  the  long  pergola  that  led  from 
the  formal  terraces  to  the  Italian  gardens,  Jack  asked 
Katherine  to  be  his  wife,  in  a  very  simple  straightforward 
and  manly  way,  and  was  supremely  happy  when  she 
said  "Yes,"  and  Katherine  found  herself  very  happy 
too. 

It  was  delightful  to  be  engaged,  to  engross  all  Jack's 
thoughts  and  all  Jack's  time,  to  find  how  much  interest 
everybody  took  in  her,  and  to  go  with  her  mother  to 
Paris,  where  she  spent  more  money  and  time  with  the 
dressmaker,  than  even  she  desired. 

One  day,  shortly  before  her  marriage,  somebody 
told  her  that  Eric  was  unhappy.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  her  that  he  cared  for  her,  and  it  seemed  most  wonderful 
that  she  should  be  the  object  of  such  a  romance.  So 
she  sent  a  great  many  consoling  messages  to  him,  and 
wrote  a  very  charming  note  when  he  sent  her  a  little 
bracelet  with  '  God  be  with  you '  in  diamonds. 

She  did  not  meet  him  again  until  her  wedding-day; 
and  when  she  came  down  the  church  she  saw  him  in 


128  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

the  crowd  of  people  and  smiled  at  him,  but  noticed  that 
he  looked  white  and  drawn.  For  a  moment  she  felt 
a  great  compassion  for  him,  but  soon  forgot  all  about  it 
when  she  went  out  into  the  world  with  Jack. 

Some  months  afterward,  when  Katherine  met  him 
again  in  a  country  house,  he  told  her  one  evening  under 
the  stars  out  in  the  garden  after  dinner  how  he  had  suffered ; 
and  then  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  the  sight  of 
his  pain  had  to  a  large  extent  marred  her  happiness  on 
her  wedding-day.  For  she,  like  many  others,  began 
to  look  back  on  the  past  with  new  eyes,  and  she  saw 
some  things  which  certainly  had  escaped  her  at  the  time. 

The  knowledge  that  Eric  cared  for  her  seemed  almost 
to  give  piquancy  to  the  happiness  of  those  early  days. 
It  was  good  to  know  that,  although  Jack  was  so  devoted 
to  her,  there  were  other  people  who  cared  for  her  also, 
and  it  only  served  to  make  her  realize  her  worth  and  to 
impress  her  with  the  favor  she  had  done  her  husband  in 
marrying  him  at  all.  But  on  the  whole  they  were  very 
happy,  and  certainly  no  cloud  of  jealousy  ever  rose  on 
Jack's  horizon  to  mar  his  content. 

The  days  after  Jack's  departure  seemed  very  long 
to  Katherine.  For  the  first  time  the  door  of  fate  had 
been  shut  in  her  face,  that  door  which  has  no  handle, 
which  forces  us  to  remain  outside. 

The  experience  was  a  new  one.  Her  happiness  had 
hitherto  been  the  aim  and  object  of  everyone  round  her; 
the  preservation  of  her  health  a  religion,  her  enjoyment 
a  duty.  Now  and  then  she  had  fancied  that  she  would 
like  to  be  free,  even  from  those  who  labored  to  make 
life  lovely,  to  go  where  she  would  without  consulting 
any  other  will,  to  be  able  to  start  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
for  Italy,  when  yellow  fog  descended  upon  London,  to 
migrate  like  the  birds  to  Egypt,  and  wake  in  the  sunshine 
of  the  Nile  Valley;  or  suddenly  to  sail  to  the  fiords  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  129 

Norway  when  London  life,  transplanted  to  the  Scottish 
moors,  became  irksome.  Complete  independence  seemed 
to  her  a  wonderful  possession,  because  it  was  probably 
the  only  one  she  did  not  own.  She  would  talk  glibly 
of  the  joys  of  bachelor  life  in  a  flat,  although  the  services 
of  twenty  servants  barely  sufficed  to  carry  out  her  wishes. 
She  sometimes  envied  women  who  earned  their  money 
and  their  freedom,  when  her  dressmaker's  bills  would 
have  been  a  sufficient  income  for  several  families;  and 
now  that  temporary  independence  had  come  to  her  she 
could  devise  no  means  of  using  it.  She  wanted  some 
one  to  consult  as  to  the  best  plans  for  new  pleasure. 

If  only  Eric  had  stayed,  she  thought,  as  she  looked 
at  the  collie  lying  on  the  rug  beside  her,  we  could  have 
had  some  good  times.  And  then  she  fell  to  thinking  of 
his  good-bye,  and  wondered  how  things  would  have 
been,  if,  instead  of  marrying  Jack — dear  good,  faithful 
old  Jack — she  had  opposed  her  mother  and  insisted  on 
marrying  Eric. 

She  remembered  days  in  the  garden  at  home,  when 
he  had  talked  to  her  of  art  and  of  music,  and  had  read 
Shelley  and  Swinburne.  No  other  man  had  ever  talked 
to  her  in  the  same  way.  He  was  so  reverent,  so  enthusi 
astic.  She  had  felt  sure  that  none  had  ever  touched 
his  heart  but  herself.  How  often  he  had  told  her  that 
she  had  come,  as  Beatrice  had  come  to  Dante,  a  revelation 
of  womanhood;  but  that  was  after  her  marriage,  when 
he  described  to  her  his  despair. 

Poor  Eric!  She  had  made  him  suffer,  and  his  was 
a  sensitive  nature;  such  suffering  was  torture.  How 
well  he  understood  her  in  all  her  moods.  Dear  old 
Jack  knew  nothing  of  her  real  nature,  of  her  aspira 
tions  after  the  ideal,  of  her  artistic  temperament,  which 
Eric  had  often  told  her  was  the  world's  blessing  but  the 
possessor's  curse. 
9 


130  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Yes,  if  Eric  had  not  gone,  these  months  would  have 
been  a  time  for  expansion.  She  would  have  breathed  new 
air,  and  opened  to  a  new  consciousness  of  power.  Life 
would  have  ceased  to  be  commonplace.  She  was  tired 
of  the  chatter  of  London  society,  of  Bridge,  of  dress. 
She  saw  herself  the  centre  of  a  sterner  world,  in  a  setting 
of  exquisite  simplicity,  the  rubbish  of  life  cleared  away. 

After  a  little  consideration  she  determined  to  make 
a  holocaust  of  it  as  relentlessly  as  a  Savonarola.  She 
would  tolerate  only  the  best  pictures,  the  most  perfect 
furniture,  the  most  precious  ornaments.  She  would 
dress  differently,  drape  herself  in  long,  straight  garments, 
and  twist  her  fair  hair  into  Greek  coils.  She  threw 
herself  in  thought  into  a  part  she  felt  that  she  could  play. 
She  saw  Eric  walking  with  her  in  her  dream.  She  knew 
how  serenely  happy  he  would  look  when  he  saw  how 
her  surroundings  had  changed,  when  she  sat  talking 
to  him  on  his  return  against  a  background  of  white  lilies. 
But  dear  old  Jack!  Where  would  she  put  his  whips 
and  golf  sticks?  How  ill  at  ease  he  would  be!  How 
little  he  \vould  understand  her  mood  or  enter  into  the 
scheme  of  beauty  she  had  planned. 

She  thought  of  the  two  bears  he  had  shot  in  the  Rockies, 
which  stood  in  the  hall.  He  had  them  stuffed  to  hold 
electric  lamps.  Of  the  rare  Indian  monkey  he  had 
given  her,  which  hung  by  a  silk  cord  from  the  ceiling  in 
her  sitting-room,  and  she  shivered.  Eric  had  taught 
her  that  such  things  were  a  transgression  against  the 
first  canons  of  art.  Therefore,  of  course,  they  must  be 
sacrificed  at  once.  She  \vould  set  about  making  these 
changes  now;  it  would  interest  her  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  a  new  career.  She  wrould  buy  books  and  read  diligently 
while  Eric  was  away,  and  by-and-by,  when  he  returned, 
he  would  find  her  in  this  new  wrorld,  full  of  intensity  and 
color. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  131 

Uplifted  by  this  ideal  of  artistic  severity,  combined 
with  luxury  and  beauty,  she  determined  to  lose  no  time 
in  setting  about  her  work.  How  Eric  would  rejoice  in 
her  complete  understanding  of  his  principles. 

Katherine  drove  that  very  day  to  one  of  the  most 
famous  decorators  in  London,  renowned  for  the  extreme 
costliness  of  his  simplicity.  She  was  anxious  to  spend 
some  hours  in  thoroughly  imbibing  the  sentiment  of  the 
style  that  was  new  to  her.  She  wanted  to  make  no 
mistakes,  but  she  felt  that  deep  down  in  her  real  mind, 
if  she  were  honest,  she  would  be  obliged  to  admit  that 
much  of  what  she  saw  found  in  her  no  appeal — stiff  flowers 
and  long  straight  stalks,  attenuated  birds  and  subdued 
color.  She  sighed  for  more  obvious  representations 
of  roses  and  daisies  and  lilies,  interlaced  with  bright 
ribbons.  The  severity  of  the  furniture  was  chilling,  but 
she  allowed  no  glimpse  of  her  real  taste  to  appear.  The 
tall  young  man  in  a  pale  green  tie,  was  didactic. 

"This  cabinet,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  straight  upright 
cupboard  in  gray-colored  oak,  "is  designed  by  Lowry. 
It  is  absolutely  pure  in  taste.  The  lock  is  a  gem." 

Katherine  looked  at  the  square  of  beaten  silver,  and 
could  see  very  little  to  admire. 

"The  curve  of  that,"  said  the  young  man,  holding 
out  a  key  with  a  heart-shaped  handle,  "is  singularly 
happy." 

Katherine  thought  of  her  buhl  cabinets  which  Eric 
abused,  and  knew  that  she  saw  their  merit,  but  the  charm 
of  this  unadorned  gray  wood  was  like  a  language  she 
did  not  understand.  She  passed  from  room  to  room, 
until  she  came  to  a  corner  furnished  for  the  instruction 
of  aesthetic  neophytes.  Here  the  young  man  paused. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  very  true."  And  Katherine 
knew  that  although  she  had  uttered  no  word  he  had 
gauged  her  ignorance. 


132  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Of  course,  according  to  this  example,  every  corner 
of  her  house  was  wrong.  The  shape  of  the  windows, 
the  curtains,  the  carpets,  all  must  be  remodelled.  She 
felt  no  hesitation  as  to  the  necessity;  and  indeed,  next 
day,  when  the  tall  young  man  called  upon  her,  the  terrible 
silence  he  had  preserved  as  she  led  him  through  her 
rooms  made  the  urgency  of  such  a  change  more  obvious. 

How  much  Eric  must  have  suffered,  she  thought, 
as  she  saw  the  expression  in  the  young  man's  face  as 
his  eye  rested  on  a  Minton  china  pug  dog  with  a  blue 
ribbon  round  its  neck  which  sat  by  the  fireplace  in  her 
boudoir.  She  remembered  being  really  pleased  with  it 
when  it  was  given  to  her,  and  thought  it  singularly  life 
like  and  ornamental. 

After  a  while  the  tall  young  man  began  making  notes, 
and  at  last  vouchsafed  to  say  in  a  slow,  soft  voice  : 

"Of  course,  my  lady,  you  are  aware  the  whole  house 
is  so  absolutely  -  —  incorrect  that  it  will  be  best  to 
make  a  scheme,  commencing  with  the  ground-floor 
rooms,  and  work  upward,  as  the  structure  will  want 
radical  alteration;  the  shape  of  the  windows,  the  fire 
places,"  and  he  waved  his  long  hand,  as  though  to  include 
all  things  in  his  condemnation. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Katherine.  "Let  us  begin  with 
the  downstairs.  Get  designs  ready,  and  let  me  see 
them.  But  I  am  in  a  hurry;  no  time  must  be  lost." 

He  looked  at  her  critically.  As  a  tradesman  the 
sentiment  suited  him;  as  an  artist  it  was  reprehensible. 
But  he  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Katherine  looked  round  at  the  gay  chintzes  and  colored 
cushions  and  damask  curtains,  and  sighed.  Still  Eric 
should  find  her  in  the  setting  which  appealed  to  his  taste 
and  knowledge. 

She  would  say  nothing  of  her  intentions;  she  could 
not  bear  the  protestations  of  her  mother,  or  the  jeers  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  133 

i 

Anne.     She  determined  to  slide  gradually  into  her  new 

part,  and  make  the  change  imperceptible. 

That  day  she  lunched  with  Lady  Hornden,  and  after 
ward  Anne  fetched  her  for  afternoon  shopping,  and  at 
five  o'clock  they  agreed  to  call  on  Lady  Augusta  Leaven, 
a  mutual  relation,  a  visit  they  deemed  a  troublesome 
duty,  and  therefore  seldom  performed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LADY  AUGUSTA  LEAVEN  was  at  home,  and  delighted 
to  see  her  "kinswomen,"  as  she  called  them.  She  was 
conscious  that  they  lived  in  a  coterie  more  modern  than 
her  own,  but  she  argued  that  after  all  the  passing  fashion 
of  an  hour  has  no  real  significance;  it  is  birth  only  which 
really  sets  distinction  on  the  individual,  and  worth,  she 
would  have  added,  for  she  believed  that  she  possessed  both. 

The  western  sun  was  pouring  into  the  drawing-room 
in  which  the  three  women  sat  at  tea,  lighting  up  the 
banal  Dresden  figures  and  small  herds  of  china  animals 
which  crowded  every  table  and  bracket. 

"I  put  aside  two  days  in  the  week  for  doing  good," 
said  Lady  Augusta,  as  she  poured  out  tea  with  her  fat, 
jewelled  hands. 

"How  satisfactory  such  a  consciousness  must  be," 
said  Anne  Rodney.  "It  would  be  a  real  comfort  to 
have  such  a  certainty." 

There  was  a  slight  inflection  in  her  voice.  It  was 
not  a  sneer,  but  it  was  like  the  suggestion  of  cold  caused 
by  a  momentary  draught  of  air  on  a  sultry  day. 

Lady  Augusta  looked  up  quickly,  but  detected  nothing. 
She  was  not  keenly  appreciative  of  shades;  she  only 
understood  what  was  acutally  stated,  or  what  she  thought 
had  been  stated. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "of  course  it  is.  I  go  to  the 
East  End,  where  I  conduct  a  class  of  mothers.  One 
hundred  women  under  my  direct  control.  I  tell  them 
what  they  should  do,  how  to  manage  their  homes.  I 
keep  them  from  drink,  and  then,  you  see,"  she  said,  as 

134 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  135 

though  she  had  reached  the  crowning  height  of  beneficence, 
"I  show  them  how  impossible  it  is  for  the  masses  to  exist 
without  the  classes." 

"How  interesting!"  murmured  Lady  Cliffe.  She 
could  not  find  any  more  suitable  expression.  She 
knew  that  Anne  was  criticising  her  hostess,  and  she  felt 
that  she  must  show  her  appreciation  and  yet  reserve 
her  opinion. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  a  small  middle- 
aged  woman,  with  a  round,  genial  face  and  friendly 
manner  was  announced  as  Mrs.  Dorine.  She  shook 
hands  warmly  with  Lady  Augusta,  and  appeared  delighted 
to  greet  the  two  visitors.  She  murmured  little  rippling 
sentences  about  "ages  since  they  met,"  and  the  difficulty 
of  finding  friends  in  London,  and  finally  settled  herself 
into  a  chair,  and  took  the  cup  held  out  to  her,  turning 
and  chirping  and  twittering  like  a  bird  in  spring. 

"We  were  talking  of  my  work,"  said  Lady  Augusta, 
"and  I  was  saying  how  interesting,  indeed  how  ab 
sorbing,  it  becomes.  I  have  no  fears  of  socialism,"  she 
continued,  looking  at  Lady  Cliffe,  as  though  the  inter 
ruption  should  not  debar  her  from  hearing  the  weighty 
things  she  had  to  tell  her.  "The  lower  orders  are  per- 
ferctly  aware  of  the  value  of  the  aristocracy.  It  is  the 
middle  classes  that  bring  about  the  trouble.  I  believe 
we  shall  have  no  peace  until  we  deal  entirely  with  the 
people,  and  ignore  the  assumptions  of  those  who  are 
trying  to  push  upward." 

"Will  not  that  be  rather  a  difficult  task?"  asked 
Mrs.  Rodney,  as  she  stirred  her  tea  gently,  looking  at 
Lady  Augusta  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  answered  Lady  Augusta.  "Once 
the  people  understand  who  are  their  true  friends  they 
will  rally  round  us.  It  was  so  in  the  French  Revolu 
tion,"  she  added  vaguely. 


136  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"They  rallied  round  their  heads  a  little  too  late  to 
accept  active  leadership!"  said  Mrs.  Rodney. 

"Of  course,"  continued  Lady  Augusta,  ignoring 
the  last  remark,  "it  requires  experience  to  deal  with 
the  scum." 

"Scum  always  rises  to  the  top,  doesn't  it?"  asked 
Anne  Rodney  provokingly. 

Lady  Augusta  looked  puzzled  for  an  instant. 

"Oh  no,  it  doesn't,"  she  said;  "they  have  no  leaders; 
and  besides,  drink  keeps  them  down. 

"I  see.  Then  it  seems  to  be  as  well  to  keep  on  the 
stirring  process." 

Mrs.  Dorine  had  been  listening  with  her  head  slightly 
poked  forward.  She  felt  that  the  air  was  electric,  and 
that  storms  threatened. 

"Have  you  seen  that  delightful  girl,"  she  said  in  her 
most  bird-like  tones,  "who  is  working  in  the  slums,  as 
you  are  so  constantly  in  the  East  End,  dear  Augusta?" 

"No,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  rather  loftily.  "What 
girl?  I  don't  understand  you,  Fanny.  There  are 
so  many  girls  in  the  East  End." 

"Why,  Elizabeth  Maynell,  Lord  Oxenham's  niece. 
She  has  gone  to  live  right  among  the  poor,  and  they 
say  she  is  almost  worshipped.  Such  a  beautiful,  refined 
creature.  I  think  she  must  be  a  saint." 

Lady  Augusta  looked  annoyed. 

"Oh,  Elizabeth.  Of  course  I  have  known  her  all 
her  life.  I  call  it  ridiculous  exaggeration,  and  more 
over,  from  my  knowledge  of  the  people,  not  at  all  likely 
to  win  respect,  as  they  know  the  gulf  between  us  quite 
as  well  as  we  do." 

"Oh  yes,  of  course,  dear,"  answered,  the  chirping 
voice,  "only  she  tries  to  do  good,  and  it's  very  touch 
ing.  It  may'nt  be  quite  our  way,  but  really  it's  very  self- 
denying — an  ugly  lodging-house,  and  poor  little  rooms." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  137 

Lady  Cliffe  looked  up  sympathetically. 

"I  call  it  beautiful,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to 
know  her.  She  must  be  a  modern  Saint  Francis."  The 
idea  appealed  to  her  imagination.  She  could  understand 
the  fascination  of  being  beloved  and  reverenced.  "Will 
you  let  me  drive  you  down  there,  Augusta?  I  want  to 
see  Saint  Clara.  That  is  the  only  female  complement 
to  St.  Francis  I  can  think  of." 

"Oh,  dear  Lady  Cliffe,  how  delightful!"  said  Mrs. 
Dorine.  "Of  course,  she  will  be  enchanted.  Her 
life  is  very  restricted,  and  she  ought  to  see  people  of 
her  own  class.  Some  society  would  be  good  for  her. 
Dear  Augusta,"  she  added,  feeling  she  had  committed 
an  unpardonable  breach  in  diverting  the  stream  of  at 
tention  from  her  special  channel,  "you  will  be  sure  to 
give  her  this  great  pleasure?" 

"Yes,  some  time;  but  really,  when  I  go  to  the  East 
End  it  is  to  undertake  serious  duties  quietly,  not  to  see 
these  young  ladies  who  make  themselves  conspicuous 
as  modern  saints." 

Katherine  Cliffe  looked  at  Anne  and  smiled  furtively. 

"How  tired  you  must  get!"  said  Mrs.  Dorine,  sym 
pathetically.  "You  have  your  daughters  to  take  out, 
and  your  house  to  manage,  and  all  the  thousand  things 
that  a  London  season  entails.  It  must  be  very  hard  to 
keep  pace  with  such  work  besides." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  beaming  out  again  from 
the  momentary  cloud  behind  which  she  had  for  a  while 
hidden  her  complacency,  "but  I  have  a  strong  sense 
of  duty,  and  I  have  brought  up  my  girls  to  feel  all  they 
owe  to  society,  and  they  are  fond  of  work  among  the 
poor.  I  am  thankful  to  see  how  happy  they  are  in  quietly 
doing  good.  I  disapprove  so  much  of  these  noisy  move 
ments  that  force  women  to  the  front.  I  always  tell  them 
that  we  can  do  so  much  more  by  our  influence,  than  by 


138  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

'rights'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Besides,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Lady  Cliffe  as  more  likely  to  understand  her, 
"men  dislike  these  modern  ways  so  much.  They  talk 
to  these  girls,  and  laugh  with  them,  but  the  nice  men 
don't  marry  them." 

"I  don'  know  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Rodney.  "Look 
at  Mr.  Asperton,  who  has  just  married  Miss  Dorothy 
King.  No  one  was  more  independent  or  unchaperoned 
than  she.  She  was  a  regular  hooligan  girl,  and  he  is  a 
nice  man;  he  certainly  must  have  twenty  thousand  a 
year." 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  "in  my  day  that  girl 
would  never  have  been  looked  at.  The  men  have  de 
generated  under  the  influence  of  these  modern  women, 
and  certainly  it  is  a  struggle  for  real  conscientious  mothers." 

"They  are  not  tempted  severely,"  said  Mrs.  Rodney, 
"because  when  the  partis  don't  propose  their  love  of 
pure  gold  is  not  tried  as  by  fire." 

At  this  point  both  women  rose,  and,  holding  out  her 
hand  to  her  hostess,  Mrs.  Rodney  said: 

"Good-bye,  dear  Augusta,  I  must  go.  I  have  to  see 
my  sister,  who  cannot  go  out,  as  you  know  her  father- 
in-law  is  dead." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Augusta  eagerly,  "I  know.  Of 
course  death  is  so  sad  in  a  house,"  and  then,  after  a 
pause,  she  added,  "So  of  course  they  succeed  now?" 
It's  a  splendid  position.  What  a  lift  for  them!" 

Lady  Cliffe  smiled,  and  Mrs.  Rodney,  who  stood 
beside  her,  laughed  outright. 

"Yes,  it  must  be  like  the  mad  moment  when  you 
leave  the  servants'  hall  and  'move  to  cheese'  in  the 
housekeeper's  room.  Human  nature  is  all  the  same, 
from  the  scum  to  the  dregs.  Good-bye,  Augusta.  Take 
me  some  day  to  see  your  hundred  women.  I  should 
love  to  hear  you  talk  to  them." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  139 

Lady  Augusta  hesitated  for  a  moment,  uncertain 
as  to  the  sincerity  of  the  remark,  and  then,  as  the  certainty 
of  her  right  to  praise,  prevailed,  she  answered  cordially, 
as  she  turned  to  ring  the  bell. 

A  moment  afterward  when  the  door  was  closed,  and 
the  two  women  descended  the  broad  dark  London  stair 
case,  which  was  the  facsimile  of  every  other  staircase 
in  every  house  in  that  conventional  row,  Anne  Rodney 
said: 

"That  woman  amuses  me  more  than  I  can  say.  She 
is  an  interesting  study.  I'm  always  wondering  if  she 
really  admires  herself  profoundly,  or  if  she  believes  that 
you  will  only  take  her  at  her  own  valuation,  and  puts  all 
her  wares  in  the  window.  Whichever  it  is,  it  is  very  funny. 
She  takes  herself  seriously  as  a  great  philanthropist.  If 
she  really  were  one,  she  would  probably  be  an  intolerable 
bore ;  but  as  it  is,  her  mind  is  like  a  lucky  bag,  you  never 
know  what  you  are  going  to  draw  out  of  it." 

"I  always  feel  sorry  for  her  when  she  makes  a  fool 
of  herself,"  said  Katherine. 

"How  young!"  said  Anne,  "or  rather,  how  old,  for 
the  young  are  generally  frankly  brutal.  But  what  really 
interests  me  is  to  study  in  her  a  fine  natural  snob.  It 
sits  on  her  with  all  the  ease  of  one  who  is  born  to  it." 

"I  think  she  means  to  do  good,"  said  Katherine. 

"I  cannot  so  much  as  mention  the  road  which  is  paved 
with  such  intentions.  Anyway,  it  leads,  in  her  case, 
to  Whitechapel." 

"I  want  to  see  the  real  thing,"  said  Katherine,  "little 
Saint  Clara  in  her  slums.  What  a  terrible  problem  life 
must  be  to  her!" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  as  she  got  into  her  carriage,  "but 
we're  not  called  to  solve  it,  and  certainly  Augusta  never 
will." 

The  streets  were  blocked  with  carriages  as  Katherine 


140  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Cliffe  drove  toward  her  house  in  Hill  Street.  The  rhyth 
mic  trot  of  the  smart  ponies  in  her  victoria  was  constantly 
brought  to  a  sudden  halt  by  the  wave  of  a  policeman's 
hand,  as  long  lines  of  cabs,  carts,  omnibuses  and  foot 
passengers  were  allowed  in  turn  to  cross  where  the  thor 
oughfares  met. 

As  she  watched  the  passers-by  mechanically  her  thoughts 
turned  to  the  conversation  in  which  she  had  just  shared. 
Of  course  it  was  very  well  meant  of  Augusta,  she  thought, 
to  try  and  do  some  work  for  the  poor.  She  could  not 
quite  approve  of  the  sneering  way  in  which  Anne  spoke. 
It  was  very  difficult  to  do  good  in  London,  one  was  so 
likely  to  be  taken  in.  She  recollected  certain  warning 
notices  sent  out  by  the  Charity  Organization  Society,  and 
she  felt  a  strong  sense  of  how  extremely  careful  rich 
people  should  be  not  to  harm  the  poor,  who  were  so  prone 
to  prey  on  their  generosity.  Still,  when  she  went  back 
to  Chillam  she  would  do  more  for  the  village.  Of  course 
it  was  quite  right  to  help  the  cottagers,  it  was  only  in 
London  that  one  had  to  be  so  particular. 

Then  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  conversation  again. 
Whitechapel !  What  a  long  way  off  that  sounded!  She 
wondered  what  it  was  like,  and  how  the  people  lived. 

The  dull  roar  of  carriages  rose  and  fell.  For  a  moment 
it  seemed  like  the  bewildering  grind  of  machinery  that 
manufactured  human  life.  How  strange  that  she  should 
be  driving  down  Piccadilly  that  sunny  afternoon,  and 
there  should  be  within  this  city  another,  with  teeming 
millions,  about  which  she  knew  nothing,  a  people  as 
foreign  as  though  they  spoke  another  language,  who 
lived  a  different  life — and  little  children —  Why 
should  she  think  of  it  ?  The  thought  was  not  agreeable, 
and  it  must  be  wrong  to  trouble  over  that  which  none 
could  remedy. 

She  looked  up  at  the  trees  that  shaded  one  side  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  141 

the  long  street.  They  were  vividly  green,  with  their 
blackened  trunks  and  boughs,  and  then  the  thought 
came  to  her,  she  would  send  some  flowers  to  a  hospital, 
the  Children's  Hospital,  perhaps.  The  idea  seemed  to 
bring  relief.  Yes,  she  could  do  that;  it  would  entail 
a  note  to  her  gardener,  and  she  must  remember  to  send 
a  servant  to  fetch  them  at  the  station  when  they  arrived. 

She  lay  back  enjoying  the  evening  air,  as  though  she 
was  absolved  from  some  weight  that  rested  on  her  con 
science,  and  she  returned  to  her  plans  for  beautifying 
her  house  with  increased  content. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  CARRIAGE  in  Marshom  Street  was  almost  an  unknown 
excitement.  Once  or  twice  cabs  had  stopped  at  Miss 
MaynelPs  door,  but  when  a  "kirridge  as  'ad  no  'orses, 
and  a  driver  man  and  another  bloke  all  dressed  aout  in 
buttons  and  shiny  caps"  drove  to  the  corner  of  the  court, 
as  by  magic,  a  crowd  of  children  suddenly  gathered, 
and  when  one  of  the  men  got  down  to  ring  the  bell,  a 
circle  of  eager,  excited  faces  crowded  round  the  two 
ladies  who  occupied  the  car. 

"It's  a  mauter  car,"  said  one,  as  though  possessed 
of  all  knowledge. 

"It's  got  a  machine  inside  of  it  as  mikes  it  go,"  said 
another. 

"Ain't  it  bloomin'  foine?"  said  another. 

"Tike  me  for  a  roide,  lidies,"  said  a  bold  little  imp, 
with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"  'Old  yer  jor.  Dessay  it's  the  rorerl  fam'ly,"  called 
another. 

"She's  a  good  un,"  was  echoed  in  chorus,  as  Lady 
Augusta  stepped  down  from  the  high  step  on  to  the 
dirty  pavement. 

Katherine  followed  her.  She  looked  at  the  children 
with  wonder  and  repulsion.  How  dirty  and  noisy  they 
are,  she  thought.  How  ugly  and  gloomy  and  dull  it  all 
looked,  this  hideous  little  house;  no  one  with  an  artistic 
temperament  could  bear  it. 

Lady  Augusta  was  already  in  the  narrow  passage, 
talking  to  Martha. 

"Tell  Miss  Maynell,"  she  said  in  a  resounding  voice, 

142 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  143 

"that  Lady  Augusta  Leaven  has  come  to  see  her,  and 
that  she  has  brought  Lady  Cliff e  to  call  on  her." 

Without  any  hesitation  Martha  opened  the  door  of 
the  stuffy  little  sitting-room  and  asked  the  ladies  to 
please  be  seated,  and  went  to  find  Elizabeth. 

"Lady  who?"  said  Elizabeth,  when  Martha  gave 
her  the  message.  She  had  just  come  in,  and  was  standing 
in  her  small  bedroom. 

Martha  repeated  the  name. 

"Lady  Cliff  e — Katherine  Hornden?  How  strange 
that  she  should  come!  What  did  she  know?  Had 
Eric  ever  spoken  of  her?"  And  curiosity  leaped  up 
quickly  in  her  heart. 

In  another  moment  she  was  shaking  hands  with  them 
in  her  ugly  sitting-room. 

"I  was  telling  Lady  Cliffe  the  other  day  of  your  work 
and  mine.  She  was  so  much  interested  she  wanted  to 
see  it  for  herself.  She  has  never  been  in  the  East  End 
before,  and  does  not  know  the  people  as  we  do,"  said 
Lady  Augusta,  with  a  patronizing  smile. 

So  Eric  had  not  spoken  of  her,  was  Elizabeth's  first 
thought,  and  she  turned  and  looked  at  Katherine  with 
the  interest  every  woman  feels  for  another  who  has 
been  associated  in  any  way  with  a  man  she  loves. 

Katherine,  tall,  slim,  and  fair,  looked  very  fragile 
and  refined  in  the  midst  of  the  sordid  surroundings 
of  the  little  lodging.  Her  pretty  fluffy  golden  hair  framed 
her  oval  face  with  its  delicate  pink  and  white  coloring, 
and  the  large  gray  eyes  looked  at  Elizabeth  with  un 
disguised  interest  and  admiration. 

She  had  not  expected  to  find  a  tall  high-bred  woman 
with  a  head  set  like  a  queen's  on  the  long  white  column 
of  throat,  and  velvety  dark  eyes  with  pupils  that  changed 
and  distended  as  she  spoke.  What  history  could  have 
brought  her  here?  she  wondered.  Could  it  really  be 


144  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

from  love  for  these  people,  or  some  great  unsatisfied 
passion  which  drove  women  into  convents  in  despair? 

Utterly  unconscious  of  such  conjectures,  Lady  Augusta 
threw  herself  into  an  arm-chair.  She  had  come  to  show 
Elizabeth  off,  and  she  did  not  mean  to  be  deterred  from 
her  object. 

"What  can  Lady  Cliffe  see  of  your  work,  my  dear?" 
she  asked.  "She  has  come  all  the  way  from  Mayfair, 
and  has  been  so  anxious  to  know  you,  and  to  see  the 
East  End,  ever  since  I  described  what  you  are  doing." 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  Elizabeth  smiling.  "The 
work  is  very  humdrum  and  ordinary." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Lady  Augusta;  "I  always 
hold  that  your  mother's  meetings,  and  mine  in  Beth- 
nal  Green,  are  as  interesting  as  any  in  London.  Mine 
is  smaller,  but  of  course  I  can't  give  much  time  to  it. 
The  calls  of  a  thousand  things  are  such  a  drag  on  me. 
Indeed,  my  children  all  tell  me  they  can  never  under 
stand  how  I  manage  to  compass  all  I  do."  And  Lady 
Augusta  sank  back  into  the  arm-chair  large  and  com 
placent. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  do,  Miss  Maynell, 
here  in  these  horrible  streets,"  said  Katherine.  She 
looked  eagerly  at  Elizabeth;  she  was  really  interested. 

"I  don't  do  much,"  said  Elizabeth  a  little  stiffly. 
She  was  not  inclined  to  be  exhibited.  "I  live  here, 
and  these  people  are  my  friends,  just  as  the  people  are 
yours  among  whom  you  live." 

"Hardly  that,"  said  Lady  Augusta  disapprovingly. 
"However  kind  one  may  wish  to  be,  one  can  never  be 
really  friends  with  people  of  another  class;  but  of  course 
it  must  do  them  good  to  know  you  take  an  interest  in  them," 
she  added  more  blandly. 

"They  do  me  good,"  said  Elizabeth.  "Their  patience 
and  courage  and  unselfishness  are  a  constant  reproof. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  145 

I  could  tell  you  of  women  here  whose  husbands  are 
reservists  and  have  gone  to  South  Africa,  and  they  are 
struggling  to  get  daily  bread,  with  seven  and  eight  children, 
all  depending  on  them,  and  half  mad  with  anxiety  about 
him,  and  yet  you  never  hear  a  word  of  complaint ;  they 
just  go  on." 

Katherine  was  listening  with  glistening  eyes. 

"My  husband  is  in  South  Africa,"  she  said.  "I 
wish  I  could  do  something  for  them.  Do  you  know 
anyone  who  has  gone?  I  mean  anyone  near  to  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth;  and  then  there  was  a  moment's 
pause. 

"The  difficulty  I  find,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  who 
had  not  been  listening,  "is  to  get  any  idea  of  thrift  into 
their  heads.  They  are  so  wasteful  in  their  cooking, 
and  in  dress,  and  in  fact  in  everything.  They  will  not 
learn  to  make  a  pot  au  feu  with  broken  bits,  or  how  to 
cook  little  dainty  things  which  can  be  made  so  cheaply 
without  meat,  in  my  Thrift  Club — 

"What  do  you  say  to  that?"  said  Katherine,  inter 
rupting  the  details  which  she  felt  must  follow,  and  turning 
to  Elizabeth. 

"I  feel,"  said  Elizabeth,  looking  at  Lady  Augusta, 
"that  we  really  do  not  understand  how  difficult  the 
women's  lives  are.  Think  of  the  rooms  in  which  they 
have  to  exist;  look  at  the  grates  in  which  they  cook; 
the  horrible  handicap  of  everything.  I  don't  wonder 
that  they  don't  do  better." 

Lady  Augusta  was  shocked. 

"There  is  no  excuse,"  she  said;  "it's  drink  that  keeps 
them  in  this  horrible  state." 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "very  often  it  is;  but  then 
remember  the  conditions  in  which  they  live,  in  which 
they  sleep — five  or  six  in  one  room  in  a  dark  little  street. 
Think  of  waking  in  such  an  atmosphere.  Do  you  wonder 


146  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

every  taste  is  vitiated?  I  don't.  I  hate  drinking  as 
much  as  you  do,  but  I  often  feel  that  if  I  were  in  their 
place  I  should  do  the  same." 

Lady  Augusta  shut  her  eyes  as  though  overcome 
with  pain. 

"Well,  but  what's  the  cure?"  said  Katherine  eagerly. 
She  was  very  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  enthusiasm. 

"The  awakening  of  public  conscience,  and  more 
power  in  the  hands  of  those  who  know,  instead  of  those 
who  theorize,"  said  Elizabeth.  "A  better  fed,  better 
housed  generation  would  soon  have  different  tastes." 

"Would  you  feed  the  children  in  the  schools?"  said 
Katherine,  plunging  unknowingly  into  a  vexed  ques 
tion. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Lady  Augusta.  "Decidedly 
not.  All  the  bishops  are  against  it." 

Katherine  looked  inquiringly  at  Elizabeth. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "with  certain  safeguards,  I  would. 
You  must  create  a  new  generation,  better  bred,  more 
intelligent,  with  a  higher  standard  of  living,  before  you 
are  going  to  get  much  further." 

"That's  socialism — rank  socialism,"  said  Lady  Au 
gusta,  getting  out  of  her  chair;  "and  socialism  will  be  the 
destruction  of  religion,  and  I  mean  to  stand  by  my  Church, 
no  matter  what  the  persecution  may  be." 

"I  don't  think  we  shall  all  be  led  out  to  lions  and 
tigers,"  said  Katherine.  "Besides,  Tolstoi  says  that 
Christ  was  a  Socialist,  doesn't  he?" 

"Tolstoi  is  not  a  Churchman,  or  indeed  a  Christian," 
said  Lady  Augusta  decisively.  "Now,  Elizabeth,  what 
can  you  show  us?" 

"I  am  afraid,  Lady  Augusta,  I  have  nothing  to-day 
till  our  girls  meet  to-night  at  the  club.  I  could  take 
you  through  the  court  to  see  some  of  the  people,  if  you 
like,"  she  said  to  Katherine.  But  the  proposal  was  not 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  147 

eagerly  met.  Katherine  had  visions  of  dirty  staircases 
and  ill-smelling  rooms.  She  would  much  prefer  to  stay 
and  talk  to  Elizabeth. 

"No  Band  of  Hope,  or  Mothers'  Meeting,  or  Cloth 
ing  Club?"  said  Lady  Augusta.  "I  should  have  thought 
that  there  was  never  an  afternoon  without  some  meeting 
or  other." 

"To-day  is  Saturday,"  said  Elizabeth,  "and  we  are 
all  busy  cleaning  and  getting  ready  for  to-morrow." 

A  knock  at  the  street  door  interrupted  her  and  she 
got  up  and  went  into  the  passage. 

"Why,  Sally,"  she  said,  as  a  tall  lanky  child  stood 
on  the  threshold,  "do  you  want  me?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Maynell,"  said  the  child.  "Please,  Mrs. 
Maynell,  will  you  come  over  and  see  mover  to-night? 
She  says  as  'ow  she  wants  yer  particler." 

"What's  the  matter,  Sally?"  asked  Elizabeth. 

"Oh,  nofink;  only  I  know  as  'ow  she  does  want  yer 
perticler.  Will  you  please  to  come?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  she  said,  "but  it  may  be  late." 

"All  right,"  said  Sally;  and  the  pale  face  lit  up  with 
a  smile  of  friendly  understanding,  for  she  remembered 
the  grand  visitors  that  were  inside,  as  the  "moto  was 
a  standin'  at  the  door  with  two  driver  men  a  waitin',"  she 
afterward  explained  on  her  return. 

Elizabeth  went  back  to  her  room  where  Martha  had 
brought  tea.  Katherine  was  anxious  to  know  about 
the  child,  whose  voice  she  had  heard  in  the  passage. 

"  She  and  her  brother  are  two  of  the  wildest  imps  in  the 
alley.  The  father  and  mother  both  drink,  and  yet  those 
children,  who  haven't  a  chance,  humanly  speaking,  are 
the  most  warm-hearted  darlings  that  ever  lived,"  said 
Elizabeth  enthusiastically. 

"It's  the  dirt  that  must  be  so  trying,"  said  Kathe 
rine. 


148  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Oh,  you  can  get  used  to  anything,"  said  Elizabeth, 
pouring  out  the  tea. 

The  conversation  drifted  during  the  meal  to  the  ex 
cellence  of  the  hot  buttered  toast  and  the  value  of  such 
a  servant  as  Martha,  and  both  visitors  declared  that  to 
have  one  servant  was  really  the  only  comfortable  way 
of  living,  neither  of  them  having  tried  the  experiment. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  kissing 
Elizabeth.  "It  has  been  very  delightful  to  see  you, 
and  next  time  we  shall  hope  to  see  your  work." 

"I  may  come  again,"  said  Katherine,  holding  Eliza 
beth's  hand.  "I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  all  alone. 
I  should  like  to  help  you,  if  I  could.  While  Jack  is 
away  I  should  be  very  glad  to  do  something  useful.  I 
couldn't  undertake  what  Lady  Augusta  does,  but  I 
should  like  to  feel  I  could  be  some  tiny  use  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Elizabeth;  "I  am  sure  you  would 
like  to  help.  It  really  is  a  great  happiness." 

She  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  pavement.  So 
that  was  the  woman  who  wanted  to  marry  Eric,  she 
thought,  and  a  great  hope  grew  in  her  heart  as  she  won 
dered  why  he  had  resisted  so  much  charm  and  so  much 
wealth. 

Elizabeth  waved  good-bye  as  she  stood  in  the  dingy 
little  street,  and  the  brougham  purred  softly  and  glided 
away  to  the  other  end  of  the  great  perplexing  city. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  Elizabeth  got  back 
from  the  Factory  Girls'  Club.  She  was  expected  at  a 
Committee  meeting  and  she  went  to  it  late.  As  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  club-room  a  strong  smell  of  to 
bacco  met  her.  Michael  got  up  to  meet  her,  and  three 
other  men  rose  to  shake  hands. 

"We  came  early,"  said  Michael,  "as  we  had  a  good 
many  things  to  discuss.  Sumner  has  just  come  back 
from  seeing  the  men  on  strike,  and  he  has  some  terms  to 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  149 

put  before  the  masters  to-morrow,  and  we  want  to  get 
them  into  shape." 

Mr.  Sumner,  a  thin,  pale  young  man,  with  large  clear 
grey  eyes,  was  dressed  in  rather  seedy  clerical  clothes, 
and  he  looked  as  though  he  had  inextricably  knotted 
his  long  limbs  together,  as  he  sat  in  a  low  chair  smok 
ing  a  brown  pipe. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  twisting  his  body  as  he  spoke.  "I 
think  I  may  do  something  for  the  dear  fellows;  they're 
almost  at  the  last  ditch,  but  it  doesn't  do  to  say  so.  We 
must  not  give  in  till  we  have  tried  all  our  resources." 

"What  does  Jim  Scott  say?"  said  Michael,  naming 
a  well-known  labor  leader. 

"Oh,  he  came  down  and  gave  them  splendid  advice," 
said  Sumner,  "if  they  will  only  take  it." 

"I  wish  they  wouldn't  hold  their  meetings  at  the 
'King's  Head,'"  said  Elizabeth.  "They  haven't  got 
a  penny  to  take  home,  and  yet  somehow  they  find  enough 
to  spend  and  to  treat  each  other  with,  when  they  get 
there." 

"I  don't  believe  in  that,"  said  Sumner.  "Men  meet 
at  their  club  and  no  fault  is  found.  I  don't  see  why 
they  shouldn't  meet  at  the  poor  man's  club." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  argue  that  again.  If  you 
don't  know,  you  ought  to,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  the 
freedom  of  good  comradeship. 

"She's  quite  right.  You  know  I  don't  hold  with  you 
a  bit  there,"  said  a  broad-shouldered,  dark-complexioned 
man,  who  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  He  had 
a  short  rough  beard  and  deep-set  brown  eyes.  "I  know 
too  well  what  it  all  means;  there's  too  much  rattling  of  a 
box  round  the  streets  nowadays  to  please  me.  I  like 
the  old  ways  best,  hold  hard  and  sit  tight.  I  don't 
believe  in  processions  and  collections.  I  like  to  leave  those 
to  the  Salvation  Army  and  the  hospital  funds." 


1 50  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Wolfe  was  in  the  printing  business,  a  man  of  few 
words,  much  respected  by  the  little  group  of  reformers, 
strong,  uncompromising  and  straightforward. 

The  third  man  was  a  fair-haired  visionary.  He  had 
been  an  accountant,  but  had  lately  been  a  journalist 
on  the  staff  of  a  socialistic  newspaper.  He  was  now, 
however,  very  strongly  under  Mr.  Martin's  influence, 
and,  from  a  somewhat  noisy  agnostic,  he  had  become 
a  very  pronounced  churchman,  and  in  consequence  of 
the  aggressively  antichristian  attitude  of  the  paper,  had 
just  been  obliged  to  renounce  his  job. 

In  the  midst  of  this  group  sat  Father  Martin,  very 
silent,  looking  at  one  and  another,  and  listening  to  each. 
Michael  began  to  explain  a  situation  which  he  thought 
threatened  labor  in  the  House.  He  showed  how  the 
measure  concealed  its  true  purport,  and  the  men  fell  to 
discussing  how  best  to  arouse  their  friends  and  avert 
the  danger. 

Miss  Osterley  seized  the  opportunity  to  argue  that 
the  measure  was  really  intended  to  hamper  and  hinder 
women  workers.  She  had  mounted  her  favorite  hobby, 
and  was  off  at  a  gallop,  in  which  the  others  did  not  attempt 
to  follow  her. 

Elizabeth  listened  for  a  while,  and  then  went  to  the 
door. 

"I  have  promised  to  go  and  see  Sally's  mother,"  she 
said.  "I  daresay  I  shall  find  you  here  when  I  get  back." 

Michael  followed  her  into  the  psasage. 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"Not  in  body,  but  in  spirit,"  she  said. 

"Why?"  he  questioned. 

"Only  the  visit  of  people  from  another  world,"  she 
answered.  "I  will  tell  you  when  I  get  back.  I  shall 
not  be  long,"  and  then  she  turned  down  the  court. 

The  rain  had  begun  to  fall,  and  the  streets  were  clear 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  151 

at  an  early  hour.  In  the  long  narrow  court,  where  Sally's 
mother  lived,  all  the  street  doors  were  shut  but  the  one 
nearest  to  the  lamp,  and  a  child  was  sitting  on  the  door 
step.  She  was  gazing  in  front  of  her  at  the  wet  pavement, 
her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  face  resting  on  her  hands. 
Her  hair,  dripping  with  rain,  fell  over  her  ears,  and 
between  the  heavy  curtains  her  face  looked  old  and 
serious. 

Through  the  open  door  behind  her  she  could  hear 
from  the  first  floor  sounds  of  wakefulness,  someone 
walking  to  and  fro,  and  now  and  then  a  woman's  voice 
talking  in  a  loud  tone.  Once  she  had  heard  a  soft  low  cry, 
and  she  had  started  up  from  her  scat  listening  eagerly,  but 
the  woman's  voice  was  all  she  could  hear,  so  with  half  a 
sigh  she  sat  down  again  on  the  wet  step. 

Presently  a  small  boy  came  swinging  along,  whistling 
softly  to  himself.  He  did  not  see  the  girl  till  he  almost 
fell  over  her. 

"  'Ellow,  Sal!  Wort  yer  arter  this  time  a-night ?  Mover 
boozed  agin?"  The  child  started. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Billy?  I've  bin  wytin'  for  yer! 
Somefink's  'appened." 

"Wot,  father  copped?" 

"No,  'e's  indoors  that  drunk  'e  doesn't  know  'esself." 

"Waal,  out  wi'  it,  wot's  up?" 

She  looked  straight  at  him,  and  said  slowly : 

"Mover's  gorn  and  borned  a  biby!" 

The  boy  looked  at  her  doubtfully  for  a  moment,  and 
then  spat  through  his  teeth  on  the  pavement. 

"Wot  a  liar  yer  air,  Sal,"  he  said. 

"Billy  Catchpole,  as  sure  as  my  nime's  Sally,"  she 
said,  "mover's  borned  us  a  biby,  and  that's  Gawd's 
truef.  Mrs.  Maynell's  in  there,  and  she  can  tell  yer, 
ef  yer  don't  believe  me." 

Billy  did  not  reply,  but  stood  looking  down  the  court. 


152  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Again  a  low  cry  came  from  the  first  floor  front,  the  cry 
of  a  little  child,  and  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Is  it  trew,  Mrs.  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Billy,  it's  quite  true.  You  will  be  good  to  her, 
won't  you,  because  you  are  strong  and  big?" 

"My  Gawd,  Sal,  a  real  born  biby  of  our  wery  own," 
said  Billy,  as  he  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  beside  her, 
after  Elizabeth  had  gone. 

"Yaas,"  replied  Sal,  "ourn." 

Elizabeth  walked  slowly  back  through  the  rain.  The 
mystery  of  life  was  in  her  thoughts.  Why  had  another 
child  come  to  share  the  curse  of  those  already  born? 
Why  did  God  send  such  tender  things  into  suffering 
and  sin? 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  institute,  and  walked  into 
the  committee  room.  Only  Michael  and  Father  Martin 
remained.  She  sat  down  wearily  and  took  off  her  hat 
without  a  word.  Michael  looked  at  her  interrogatively. 

"You're  worn  out,  Elizabeth,"  he  said.  "We  will  be 
off.  You  ought  to  go  to  bed." 

"No,  don't  go,"  she  said;  "I  can't  sleep  yet.  Father 
Martin,  do  help  me,"  she  turned  to  him  almost  entreat- 
ingly.  "Why  are  children  born?  Why  should  more 
people  suffer?"  And  then  she  told  them  of  the  Catch- 
pole  baby,  and  the  visit  of  the  two  women  that  after 
noon. 

"How  can  we  understand?"  said  Father  Martin. 
"It  is  a  mystery,  like  the  ether  which  is  bound  round 
us,  and  which  we  cannot  see,  or  the  giddy  pace  at  which 
we  whirl  through  space,  which  we  cannot  feel.  But 
when  our  lessons  are  over  in  this  standard,  and  we  pass 
on  to  the  next,  if  we  have  learned  our  task,  we  shall  be 
ready  to  take  our  place  in  the  next  class  and  learn  more 
fully." 

"What  are  our  lessons?"  asked  Elizabeth. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  153 

"Duty,"  said  Father  Martin  slowly.  "I  have  come 
to  think  that  is  the  great  foundation  of  all  true  life." 

"It's  such  a  hateful  word,"  said  Elizabeth.  " '  Sacrifice,' 
'asceticism,'  are  all  picturesque,  but  'duty'  somehow 
sounds  like  Watts'  hymns." 

"The  thing  which  our  hand  finds  to  do,"  said  the 
old  man.  "I  think  it  embodies  all  that  was  ever  great 
or  ever  shall  be;  it's  the  secret  of  content,  if  we  only 
understood  it,  if  we  could  only  go  back  to  simple,  natural 
things.  We  make  life  complicated,  and  then  we  complain 
of  results  which  we  ourselves  have  brought  about." 

"I  am  sure  you  won't  mind  my  saying,"  said  Michael, 
"that  I  always  feel  we  must  blame  what  is  called  religion 
for  that ;  we  have  sc  often  heard  personal  sacrifice  extolled, 
that  most  people  forget  that  it  is  not  the  suffering  of  good 
people  that  will  help  humanity,  but  their  honest  work  to 
bring  about  just  conditions  for  everyone." 

"What  you  want  to  get  back,"  said  Father  Martin, 
"is  the  right  understanding  of  natural  life.  Christ  came 
to  common  people.  He  taught  through  what  we  call 
common  things — things  that  go  to  make  up  the  life  of 
every  man.  The  spirit  of  His  teaching  is  as  all-pervading 
as  the  sunshine.  The  world,  as  we  understand  the  word, 
isn't  Belgrave  Square  or  Limehouse,  it's  the  atmosphere 
created  by  each  individual,  who  carries  about  with  him 
his  own  world,  and  in  the  inner  workings  of  his  own  heart 
creates  a  force  for  good  or  evil.  Yes,  if  we  could  only 
get  rid  of  preconceived  ideas,  and  go  back  to  the  sim 
plicity  of  children,  we  should  get  free  from  the  artificial 
folly  which  chokes  our  growth." 

"There  is  so  much  cant  nowadays  about  the  simple 
life  that  I  am  really  weary  of  it,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I 
know  people  who  will  discuss  for  half  an  hour  whether 
it  is  compatible  with  the  simple  life  to  eat  mashed  potatoes, 
or  whether  they  must  he  boiled.  It  sickens  me." 


154  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Father  Martin.  "When  a 
new  idea  is  in  the  air  it  finds  all  sorts  of  absurd  expres 
sions,  and  parodies  are  only  possible  when  a  subject  is 
well  known.  I  don't  mind  that;  the  trouble  is,  people 
can't  be  simple,  and  they  won't  see  it  is  not  the  way 
potatoes  are  cooked  which  will  make  them  so.  It  is  when 
the  life  is  in  harmony  with  the  will  of  God,  so  far  as  we 
apprehend  it,  that  the  joy  of  life  is  understood.  Even 
the  Epicurean  saw  that  excess  would  ruin  the  happiness 
he  aimed  at.  No  one  knew  better  than  the  Greek  that 
he  must  avoid  extremes ;  it  is  the  basis  of  their  philosophy ; 
and  this  thought  of  the  simple  life  is  the  revival  of  their 
teaching.  It's  all  right,  it  will  make  for  good.  Only 
don't  fret,  Elizabeth;  the  Hand  that  holds  the  world 
in  its  course  will  take  care  of  the  little  baby,  and  of  you, 
and  me,  and  the  ladies  who  understood  so  little  of  the 
suffering  here,  and  manage  the  whole  lot  of  us,"  said 
the  old  man,  with  one  of  his  rare  smiles.  "Now  good 
night.  I  shall  prose  on  till  midnight,  and  you  are  tired." 

When  he  had  gone  Elizabeth  turned  to  Michael  and 
said: 

"The  dear  man  has  got  the  heart  of  a  child  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  Michael  slowly,  "he  has  got  a  great  pos 
session — a  heart  and  a  faith." 

"And  you  have  got  both,  Michael,"  said  Elizabeth, 
as  he  took  her  hand,  "but  you  are  only  aware  of  one." 

Elizabeth's  regret  at  the  advent  of  the  Catchpole 
baby  was  certainly  not  shared  by  all  the  members  of  its 
family,  for  the  next  day  Sally  triumphantly  carried  the 
baby  through  the  court,  pausing  every  few  steps  to  throw 
back  the  corner  of  a  dirty  shawl  and  exhibit  the  new 
comer  to  her  envious  friends. 

Finally,  it  was  carried  to  the  Catchpole's  doorstep, 
and  there  all  the  youth  of  the  neighborhood  gathered. 
Sally,  puffed  with  pride,  smiled  complacently,  remarking 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  155 

to  Polly  Jones,  who  shared  a  seat  on  the  doorstep  with  her, 
"  'Taint  orfen  as  my  mover  do  born  a  biby,  but  when  she 
does  it's  somefink  like  a  biby!" 

"Gar  long,  Sal  Catchpole!"  exclaimed  a  sharpfaced 
child  who  was  standing  near.  "Yer'd  fink  ter  'ear  yer 
talk  nobuddy's  mover  iver  borned  a  biby  but  yourn!" 

"  'Old  yer  jawr,  Liz  Smif!"  retorted  Polly,  supporting 
the  horrified  Sal. 

"All  right,  Polly  Jones,"  sneered  Lizzie,  "yer  not 
in  wi'  Sal  fer  nofink,  I  bet!" 

"I'll  smack  yer  dirty  jawr  if  I  comes  arter  yer,"  growled 
Polly. 

"Come  an'  do  it!"  shrieked  Lizzie,  retreating  with 
her  face  toward  the  group  on  the  doorstep,  and  inter 
spersing  her  remarks  with  grimaces. 

"Yah!  Go  'ome  an'  'ide  yerself,"  Polly  replied. 
"I'd  be  'shimed  ter  siy  nasty  fings  abart  a  biby  wot  carn't 
speak  for  itself." 

"Whose  biby?"  demanded  Billy,  appearing  at  that 
minute  round  the  very  corner  where  Lizzie  had  contem 
plated  making  good  her  escape  when  she  had  made  the 
court  too  hot  for  herself. 

"Yourn!"  yelled  Polly.  "Lizzie  Smif  siyed  wot 
yer  biby — 

She  paused,  partly  because  she  did  not  remember 
what  'Lizzie  Smith  had  said,  partly  because  there  was 
no  need  for  more  words.  Lizzie  was  off,  with  Billy  at 
her  heels. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  weary  waiting  at  Cape  Town  was  ended;  the 
Blankshire  Yeomanry  had  been  ordered  to  the  front. 
Troops  had  been  pushing  northward  all  the  day.  The 
great  "spring  forward"  had  taken  place,  and  men  were 
heartened,  for  at  last  they  were  moving  on.  It  looked 
like  a  big  thing,  they  said,  and  all  were  eager  to  get  well 
into  the  work  of  war,  and  have  done  with  it. 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  so  dark  that  Eric,  who  was 
riding  with  the  subaltern  beside  him,  momentarily  ex 
pected  a  fall,  as  the  stones  stuck  out  at  right  angles  from 
the  scrubby  rough  ground. 

Presently  the  first  streaks  of  light  stretched  across 
the  distant  horizon,  pale  gleams  at  first  in  the  velvet 
purple  of  the  night  sky,  then  broadening  into  pale  gray, 
and  making  the  low  bushes  and  green  shrubs  visible,  and 
then,  a  rare  thing  in  South  Africa,  with  the  first  light  a 
few  birds  sang. 

"That's  a  good  sound,"  said  Eric,  as  they  turned 
into  a  small  village,  and  halted  to  water  horses  and  to 
breakfast. 

Eric  and  the  subaltern  walked  to  the  army  bakery, 
and  ate  bread  and  cold  meat  as  they  sat  in  the  sun,  which 
had  risen  to  warm  and  cheer  the  hearts  that  needed  it 
so  sorely.  They  fell  to  talking  with  the  man  who  ran 
the  place.  He  told  them  that  his  brother  kept  a  little 
"pub"  on  the  Thames  called  "The  Wedding  Bells." 
How  strangely  familiar  the  name  sounded.  The  peaceful 
spot  rose  before  Eric's  eyes.  How  often  after  canoeing 
had  he  lunched  there,  and  then  lay  smoking  on  the  grass, 

156 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  157 

and  looking  up  the  long  reach  of  quiet  river.  How 
far  away  it  seemed  from  this  land  where  they  rode  to-day 
to  find  a  fight.  Then  on  again,  through  clear  air  and 
dazzling  sunshine  to  the  next  halt,  where  many  troops 
were  already  encamped,  a  very  panorama  of  war.  Great 
naval  five-point-seven  guns  had  arrived,  and  a  sound 
of  bugles  was  everywhere,  and  the  tramp  of  the  marching 
of  fatigue  parties. 

Then  the  orders  were  to  ride  on  and  join  a  corps  of 
Indian  horse,  encamped  to  the  northward.  They  found 
on  arrival  that  they  had  already  had  their  first  blooding, 
and  were  eager  to  give  accounts  of  the  fight.  The  officers 
who  had  been  dining  were  sitting  in  a  knot,  and  eagerly 
welcomed  the  new-comers,  as  they  sat  smoking  and 
talking  to  them,  while  they  ate  that  most  welcome  meal. 

The  man  next  to  Eric  had  taken  out  a  knife,  and 
was  carving  the  name  of  Sloane  on  a  piece  of  board. 
It  was  the  tombstone  of  a  brother  officer,  buried  near 
by,  and  he  talked  of  the  fight  as  he  chipped  the 
wood. 

Then  on  for  another  two  miles  to  join  the  division 
on  the  northeast  of  the  river  bed,  until  the  cold  night 
closed  round  them.  All  day  long  it  had  seemed  to  Eric 
he  had  ridden  in  a  dream.  The  longing  for  a  big  fight 
was  on  him;  it  was  the  fever  which  consumed  them 
all,  to  end  the  war,  he  would  say;  but  the  sensation  was 
new,  and  he  could  not  analyze  its  strength.  He  only 
knew  it  seemed  just  then  to  be  the  object  of  existence. 

The  day  before  at  a  farmhouse  he  had  sat  on  the 
stoop  where  the  troops  had  rested  for  breakfast.  The 
women  were  crying;  one  young,  tall  and  dark,  had 
reminded  him  of  Elizabeth.  She  looked  at  him  with 
the  same  wide-open  eyes  brimming  with  tears  which 
did  not  fall.  The  women  asked  if  the  troops  would 
burn  the  farm? 


158  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Our  hearts  beat  fast  from  fear,"  said  the  young 
woman,  who  could  speak  some  English.  "Oh,  do  not 
burn  our  house." 

He  got  out  of  his  chair  and  stood  up  before  her,  and 
assured  her  all  was  well. 

"The  white  flag  is  over  you,"  he  said,  "although 
all  the  same,  your  men  fired  from  here  yesterday." 

"Ah,  we  are  sick  of  the  war,"  she  said,  "sick,  sick." 
Then  she  spoke  of  her  husband.  Was  he  safe?  How 
she  longed  to  hear!  Eric  tried  to  console  her.  Somehow 
this  straight  slim  figure  brought  vividly  before  his  mind 
the  thought  of  another  day  when  he  watched  a  woman 
weep.  She  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and  said:  "Ah, 
I  am  sad.  War — war  is  not  pretty  to  see." 

And  then  he  tried  to  tell  her  that  she  must  persuade 
the  men  to  have  peace;  but  the  other  w^omen  had  joined 
her,  and  the  pride  of  nationality  shone  in  their  eyes  as 
they  shook  their  heads.  The  oldest,  withered  and 
shrivelled,  with  a  skin  like  parchment,  said  words  he 
could  not  understand,  holding  up  thin  hands  that  had 
toiled  unceasingly  on  that  lonely  farm  on  the  veldt. 

"The  Tante  says  the  English  are  mighty,  but  God 
is  Almighty,"  explained  the  younger  woman. 

And  now  as  in  the  darkness  they  still  moved  on, 
the  woman's  words  kept  ringing  in  his  ears,  "God  is 
Almighty."  The  road  showed  faint  and  sand-red,  across 
the  gray  green  of  the  veldt,  and  at  any  moment  he 
expected  a  long  range  shot  from  a  distant  kopje,  or  a 
challenge  from  the  enemy  who  hung  upon  their  flank. 

At  last  came  the  end  of  the  interminable  march,  and 
the  vast  camp  of  two  divisions  lay  stretched  out  waiting 
for  the  day.  Eric  shivered  with  the  cold.  The  baggage 
wagon  had  not  yet  come  on,  and  he  lay  down  under 
a  bare  covering  on  very  uneven  ground,  over  which 
in  the  darkness  he  stumbled  every  step  he  took.  In 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  159 

the  almost  unbearable  cold  he  looked  up  into  the  clear 
night  sky.  He  thought  of  the  weeping  women,  and 
heard  their  wail  until  it  died  away,  as  he  crept  into  the 
quiet  land  of  rest.  When  morning  came  he  woke,  wonder 
ing  where  he  was.  What  was  he  doing  there  on  the  hard 
uneven  ground?  Then  he  saw  against  the  first  faint 
light  that  all  round  him  were  little  wooden  crosses  stand 
ing  very  black  against  the  sky,  and  he  knew  the  meaning 
of  the  mounds  over  which  he  had  stumbled,  for  he  had 
slept  among  the  graves  of  the  men  who  had  fallen  in  the 
fight  on  that  spot,  two  months  ago.  And  as  he  looked 
at  the  poor  little  wooden  memorials,  the  remembrance  of 
the  Boer  woman's  words  came  to  his  mind. 

"It  is  true,"  he  thought.     "War  is  not  pretty  to  see." 

But  it  was  to  be  a  big  day,  and  there  was  no  time 
for  thought.  The  great  five-inch  guns  were  in  posi 
tion.  The  Guards  had  already  marched  out  in  the  dark, 
and  the  Blankshire  Yeomanry  had  orders  to  follow, 
taking  the  route  of  the  pass  two  miles  to  the  north. 

Out  and  on  over  the  vast  plains  the  various  detach 
ments  were  scattered  like  herds,  moving  in  the  distance 
toward  the  river-bed;  and  where  the  sunlight  gleamed 
there  was  a  glitter  of  arms,  while  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  rumble  of  the  great  gunwheels,  and  the  clatter  of 
cavalry  and  mounted  infantry.  The  infantry  were 
spread  out  in  open  order — wide  moving  lines.  The 
batteries  were  clustered  into  black  dots  upon  the  plain, 
and  then  at  last  the  ball  opened. 

"The  Boers  are  giving  hell  with  a  Long  Tom,"  said 
Eric  to  a  brother  officer,  as  he  rode  up  to  him;  and  as 
he  spoke  he  pointed  to  where  the  shells  were  bursting, 
and  hid  the  guns  in  clouds  of  dust,  and  then  the  dull 
thud  of  explosion  followed. 

Eric  saw  the  infantry  crawling  forward — one  long 
unbroken  thread  upon  the  wide  plain,  without  a  scrap 


160  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

of  cover.  He  saw  the  sharpnel  shells  burst  in  the  air, 
and  heard  the  shrill  scream  of  the  bullets  as  they  struck 
the  earth.  Fascinated  by  the  soft  puffs  of  smoke  against 
the  green  background,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  watching 
Eton  fireworks  on  the  fourth  of  June  again. 

Then  word  came  to  move  on  and  on,  four  miles  more, 
until  the  plain  tilted  down  to  the  river-bed.  Behind 
and  beyond  the  river  were  some  low  kopjes.  All  over 
the  plain,  as  by  magic,  battery  after  battery  of  artillery 
swung  up,  swung  round,  unlimbered,  and  began — 
bang,  bang,  bang. 

The  enemy  were  in  the  river,  and  their  guns  on  the 
kopjes.  The  naval  guns  had  opened  deafening  loud. 
The  whole  country  ahead  simply  shouted  fire.  The 
man  next  to  Eric  was  shot  dead.  He  turned  his  head 
a  moment  as  he  saw  him  fall,  but  the  hills  were  ablaze 
with  shells,  and  he  could  spare  no  thought  save  for  this 
sight  of  the  wrath  of  war  pulverizing  man,  and  the  ful 
filment  of  the  orders  to  move  on.  The  Boer  shells  were 
coming  unpleasantly  thick,  when  up  came  a  British 
pom-pom. 

"Thank  God  it's  ours,"  called  Eric  to  a  lieutenant. 
"They're  all  right  so,  but  they're  the  most  cursed  things 
when  they're  against  us." 

It  soon  began  its  work.  The  little  shells  scraped 
the  dust  all  round  the  enemy's  guns.  They  made  a 
stand  against  it  for  a  while,  then  were  in  full  retreat. 
It  was  a  splendid  moment.  The  order  was  given  to 
advance  and  dismount.  The  men  of  the  Blankshire 
Yeomanry  fired  very  coolly.  The  bullets  whistled  and 
bustled  round  them,  but  the  men's  nerves  had  grown 
steady,  and  they  seemed  no  worse  to  them  than  big  hail 
stones.  It  was  nearly  the  end;  only  stragglers  remained. 
Eric  turned  to  give  the  order  to  remount.  Something 
came  toward  him  with  a  shrieking  noise.  Was  it  a  blow  ? 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  161 

He  never  knew,  only  when  he  woke  a  doctor  was  holding 
him  and  the  blood  was  pouring  out  of  his  mouth. 

A  voice  which  seemed  to  come  from  an  immeasur 
able  distance  spoke  to  him  and  told  him  he  was  better, 
but  the  hot  blood  welled  up  again  and  nearly  choked 
him.  Was  he  wounded?  Was  he  dying?  The  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind,  but  everything  seemed  so  far 
away  it  scarcely  mattered,  and  his  only  care  was  to  get 
air — air.  This  suffocating  weight  was  hideous.  His 
coat  was  torn  open ;  the  doctor  was  binding  his  side.  A 
rumbling,  rolling  noise  was  close  to  his  head,  then  dark 
ness  for  a  moment.  Was  it  death  or  sleep?  And  then 
more  choking  agony.  The  doctor's  voice  again,  kind 
and  consoling;  then  another  figure  was  bending  down. 

"  Poor  old  chap !    Will  he  pull  through  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Thank  God!  You're  going  to  be  all  right,  Eric, 
old  boy." 

The  voice  was  Jack's.  He  remembered  now.  He 
was  holding  him. 

"Your  men  have  done  magnificently.  Linklater  says 
they  did  the  trick.  That  last  stand  was  ripping."  The 
doctor  had  taken  Eric's  wrist.  "He's  giving  you 
morphia,"  said  Jack.  "You'll  be  in  less  pain  then." 

Eric  put  his  other  hand  to  his  throat,  and  as  he  did 
so  he  felt  a  bit  of  chain,  and  something  hanging  from  it. 
He  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  took  Jack's  hanJ 
and  whispered: 

"Take  it;  give  it —     "  then  darkness. 

They  had  lifted  him  up,  and  Jack  stood  with  his  hand 
grasping  Eric's  legacy,  for  whom  he  knew  not,  while 
the  ambulance  jolted  slowly  over  the  ant-hills  and  was 
lost,  a  white  speck  in  the  distance. 


i62  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

The  London  season  had  begun,  and  people  were  taking 
amusement  furtively.  Those  who  ought  to  be  sad  but 
felt  no  real  oppression  from  their  anxiety,  arranged  small 
dinners  and  went  to  the  play,  and  flocked  to  country 
house  parties  from  Saturday  to  Monday.  Those  who 
were  restless  and  miserable  tried  vainly  to  forget,  and 
went  about  as  usual.  And  others  who  had  no  anxiety, 
and  from  whom  no  sorrow  was  expected,  felt  it  "the 
thing"  to  take  pleasure  surreptitiously,  and  enjoy  small 
doses  of  amusement  very  constantly.  But  it  was  dis 
turbing  to  hear  hoarse  cries  ringing  down  the  streets, 
and  only  catchwords  like  "Great  bat — !  'orrible  loss 
of  loife!"  They  were  months  of  tension  and  suspense, 
to  some  almost  unendurable,  and  to  all  uncomfortable 
and  disquieting. 

A  week  after  her  visit  to  Marshom  Street  Katherine 
Cliffe  was  sitting  at  her  dressing-table.  The  June  sun 
shine  filled  the  room,  and  the  gold  brushes  and  ornaments 
and  glass  bottles  reflected  the  light  in  miniature  rainbows, 
twinkling  and  changing  and  glistening,  throwing  flicker 
ing  lights  on  the  long  wavy  masses  of  fair  hair  that  fell 
to  Katherine's  waist,  as  she  sat  wrapped  in  some  delicate 
lace  garment  awaiting  the  hairdresser.  The  man  was 
late,  but  presently  her  maid  ushered  a  pale  little  French 
man  into  the  room,  who  was  soon  busy  combing  out  her 
bright  glossy  locks. 

"Miladi  has  good  news  of  Sir  John?"  he  asked,  with 
the  respectful  familiarity  of  an  habitue  of  the 
house. 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  Katherine,  "I  had  a  letter  yes 
terday.  He  is  well,  and  has  seen  a  lot  of  fighting.  That's 
why  they  went,  you  know,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
in  the  glass. 

"Oh,  fighting  assuredly  they  will  have  soon  enough. 
For  me,  I  never  could  see  a  man  'urt  or  killed,  but 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  163 

on  s> habitue  a  tout"  he  said,  slightly  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

"Miladi  wish  her  hair  dressed  'igh  or  low?" 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Katherine;  "whichever  you  like 
best." 

"Oh,  for  that,  miladi  is  always  nice.  I  will  do  the 
double  knot  in  the  nape  of  miladi's  neck.  Miladi  'as 
many  engagements?  The  season  is  spoiled,  positively 
spoiled,"  he  went  on.  "Families  are  in  mourning, 
and  some  people  are  anxious;  or  if  they  are  not,  they 
want  to  be  thought  vere  anxious,  and  only  enjoy  them 
selves  priveate,  vere  priveate,"  and  he  stretched  out 
his  long  hands  as  though  to  close  doors.  "Oh,  for  that, 
there  is  some  gone  not  wanted  'ome  at  all;  and  there 
is  some  gone  that  'omes  will  be  desolated  if  'e  not  return." 
Then,  breaking  into  French,  he  gave  Katherine  his  views 
on  war,  which  he  felt  was  incompatible  with  civilization. 
She  listened  with  an  amused  smile.  "And  zen  ze  season 
is  spoilt  becorse  all  ze  ladies  must  go  out  nursing.  Ah, 
c'est  tres  joli,  un  bonnet  de  garde  malade,  tres  coquet, 
mais  fa  ne  fait  pas  mon  affaire.  Miladi  'ere  'ow 
Lady  Bramley  ze's  gone,  and  ze  Honble.  Mrs.  Kinhurst 
is  gone,  and  Miss  Hirtwick  is  gone.  Oh,  zey  are  like 
ze  swallows,  zey  go  to  find  ze  flies.  I  see  ze  paper  zis 
evening,  miladi,  a  young  officer  wounded.  Vere  sad, 
such  a  good-looking  young  man,  vere  young."  And  he 
stopped  combing,  put  the  comb  in  his  mouth  and  felt 
in  his  pocket.  "Ah,  'ere  is  ze  papare,  miladi  not  seen 
it?"  And  he  pointed  to  a  crumpled  paragraph  where 
the  words  caught  her  eye. 

"Mr.  Errington  of  the  Blankshire  Yeomanry  severely 
wounded,"  and  other  names  followed,  but  they  were 
of  no  interest  to  her.  She  looked  at  his  name  terror- 
struck.  The  remembrance  of  his  admiration  for  her 
came  back  very  vividly.  How  strong  and  well  he  looked 


164  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

the  day  he  said  good-bye  to  her  at  Waterloo.    Now  he 
was  lying  there  in  some  hospital  on  the  veldt. 

"Ah,  'e  vill  be  veil  nursed;    vere  fine  young  man." 

Who  was  nursing  him?  thought  Katherine.  The 
man's  words  had  ceased  to  interest  her.  He  was  in 
tolerably  slow.  She  wanted  him  gone.  Poor  Eric! 

she  thought,  as  she  read  it  again.     Could  he  be ? 

Oh  no;  that  was  horrible. 

A  deep  sigh  made  her  look  round.  The  big  tawny 
collie  on  the  hearth-rug  had  risen  and  was  stretching 
himself. 

"Laddie!"  she  called  to  him.  "Poor  old  beast!" 
And  she  felt  almost  as  though  the  caress  must  reach 
his  master  through  the  telepathic  lines  which  connect 
the  thought  of  those  who  are  united  by  that  subtle  thing 
we  call  sympathy. 

Her  hair  was  done  and  she  was  dressed.  She  had 
telephoned  to  a  man  she  knew  in  the  War  Office  to 
find  out  all  particulars  and  call  her  up  when  she  re 
turned  home;  and  she  went  out  feeling  tired  and  list 
less,  caring  very  little  what  befell  her. 

She  had  never  thought  that  her  friendship  for  Eric 
could  have  held  so  real  a  place  in  her  life.  She  pictured 
him  thinking  of  her,  looking  at  the  photograph  she  had 
given  him.  She  saw  the  grave  look  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
clear  curve  of  his  mouth.  She  remembered  the  quiet 
tenderness  of  his  manner,  and  how  white  he  was  when 
she  told  him  she  was  engaged  to  Jack,  how  he  turned 
away  and  said  quite  low,  "God  bless  you."  She  saw 
his  face  again  on  her  wedding-day.  She  remembered 
how  she  had  told  Jack,  and  he  had  said:  "Poor  old 
chap!  I'm  afraid  he  was  hard  hit;  I'm  awfully  sorry 
for  him."  And  now  he  was  in  pain  alone,  where? 

She  almost  wished  she  had  joined  the  nursing  throng. 
Oh,  it  was  horrible,  this  war,  when  it  came  home  to  one 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  165 

like  this.  She  went  to  her  party  and  stayed  till  twelve 
o'clock.  Then  she  came  home  again,  and  rang  up  the 
telephone,  and  learned  that  Eric  was  at  the  hospital  at 
-  and  that  a  cable  had  been  received  saying 
that  so  far  things  were  going  well,  but  that  nothing  could 
really  be  foretold  as  to  his  recovery  for  another  few  days. 

She  went  up  to  her  room  and  wondered  how  Jack 
was  before  she  went  to  bed,  and  then  thought  again 
of  Eric  before  she  went  to  sleep. 

For  days  no  more  definite  information  was  to  be 
gained.  Katherine  was  a  very  constant  enquirer  at 
the  War  Office.  She  could  hear  no  more  details,  and 
she  consoled  herself  as  best  she  could  with  the  saw, 
that  "no  news  is  good  news."  Still  she  was  restless 
and  troubled.  Her  house  was  given  over  to  workmen 
and  decorators  and  she  almost  hated  the  sight  of  the 
alterations,  and  felt  superstitious  as  to  whether  she 
had  brought  bad  luck  by  carrying  out  the  designs  des 
tined  to  please  Eric. 

During  these  days  of  stress  her  thoughts  turned  to 
Elizabeth.  She  imagined  her  like  some  calm  Madonna 
soothing  the  woes  of  the  world.  It  was  a  picture  that 
appealed  to  her,  this  young  and  beautiful  mater  con- 
solatrix  amid  the  sorrows  of  the  slums.  She  determined 
to  brave  the  horrors  of  the  neighborhood  alone,  and  to 
find  Elizabeth  and  enjoy  the  charm  of  that  atmosphere 
which  had  so  strongly  impressed  her  imagination. 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  Elizabeth  had  chosen 
that  afternoon  to  do  her  club  accounts,  so  that  when 
the  electric  brougham  glided  up  to  the  door  she  was 
sitting  surrounded  by  books  of  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
puzzling  out  the  small  sums  which  went  to  make  up 
the  very  large  total  for  which  she  was  responsible.  She 
had  already  added  the  columns  again  in  pursuit  of  a 
small  sum  which  would  not  come  into  its  proper  place. 


166  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"That  loathsome  fourpence,"  she  said  aloud,  "it's  so 
careless  of  Miss  Smith  to  have  put  it  into  the  wrong  book." 
Her  head  ached,  and  she  was  just  about  to  begin  the 
weary  search  again,  and  it  was  a  real  relief  to  see  Kath- 
erine  in  her  pretty  gown  get  out  of  her  carriage. 

"I've  come  to  see  you,"  she  called  out  while  she  was 
still  in  the  passage.  "I  was  fascinated  by  you,  St.  Clara. 
In  spite  of  the  ugliness  and  the  gloom,  I  felt  I  must  see 
you  again,  and  so  here  I  am,"  and  she  rustled  into 
the  room.  "Are  you  doing  accounts?  What  a  hor 
rible  thing,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  the  pile  of  little  red 
books.  "Why  do  you  waste  your  time;  you  should 
send  for  Miss  Robinson.  She  would  look  them  all 
through  and  give  you  a  balance-sheet.  You  would 
never  understand  it,  but  it  looks  splendid.  I  never 
could'  do  an  account  in  my  life.  Two  and  two  always 
make  five  with  me,  and  really  I  have  come  to  the  con 
clusion  it  is  no  use.  Banks  are  made  to  be  overdrawn, 
and  as  to  bills,  I  always  say  they  breed.  You  start 
with  two  or  three,  and  in  a  few  months  you  have  a  pack 
of  them.  Poor  dear  Jack  is  always  rowing  about  it; 
but  I  say  that  there  are  many  things  you  must  have, 
which  you  really  never  can  pay  for.  Of  course  railway 
tickets  and  anything  you  lose  at  bridge  and  things  like 
that,  you  have  to  pay  for  ready  money,  and  that's  bad 
enough." 

She  laughed,  and  showed  her  white  even  teeth.  Eliza 
beth  loked  at  her  as  if  she  were  some  tropical  bird  whose 
plumage  was  an  artistic  delight,  but  whose  note 
jarred. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "If  one  doesn't 
pay  it  isn't  honest." 

"Oh,  but  one  does  pay,"  said  Katherine.  "Trades 
people  charge  ever  so  much  more  than  the  things  are 
worth,  so  that  in  the  end  they  come  out  square.  I  sup- 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  167 

pose  I  am  extravagant,  but  there  are  some  things  I  never 
can  resist,  principally  hats.  I  always  feel  that  the  way 
to  hell  for  me  will  be  paved  with  hats.  And  just  now 
I'm  doing  up  my  house,  and  the  expense  is  perfectly 
appalling.  I  really  don't  ask  what  they  are  going  to 
charge,  because  if  I  did  it  would  spoil  all  my  pleasure. 
Besides,  I  am  doing  away  with  all  sorts  of  unnecessary 
things,  and  I  am  going  in  for  what  a  friend  of  mine  calls 
'restrained  beauty.'  That  means  everything  fearfully 
expensive  and  fearfully  simple." 

"Are  you  going  to  be  simple?"  said  Elizabeth  in 
credulously. 

"Oh  dear  yes,"  said  Katherine.  "Everybody  is 
simple  now.  I  dined  out  last  night,  and  five  people 
cut  of  twenty  were  simple  fooders,  ate  no  meat,  and 
wanted  all  sorts  of  things  no  one  ever  heard  of.  It's 
the  most  complicated  life  there  is,  but  it's  absolutely 
the  rage." 

"  Simple  lifers  seem  to  have  as  much  trouble  in  settling 
their  principles  as  a  church  council,"  said  Elizabeth 
laughing.  "They  all  differ,  and  yet  everyone  is  certain 
that  his  dogma  is  right.  If  they  came  here  the  difficulty 
would  be  settled,  for  most  of  us  belong  to  the  'do  without 
everything'  section.  I  don't  mean  that  I  do,  for  I  have 
all  I  want." 

"Don't  you  want  beautiful  surroundings?  I  couldn't 
live  a  day  in  this  house,"  said  Katherine. 

"So  I  thought  when  I  first  saw  it,"  said  Elizabeth, 
"but  you  get  used  to  anything.  I  sometimes  think 
I  hate  it  still,"  she  added  truthfully,  "but  there's  no 
help  for  it,  so  I  make  the  best  of  it." 

"It  must  be  very  wonderful  to  live  for  other  people," 
said  Katherine.  "I  wish  I  could,  but  we  are  so  hedged 
in  with  conventionality,  it's  impossible  to  get  free,  but 
I  wanted  to  come  here  to-day  to  be  comforted.  I  am 


168  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

anxious  about  a  friend  who  has  been  wounded,  and 
anxiety  and  uncertainty  are  so  hard  to  bear." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Elizabeth  sympathetically, 
"but  I  am  glad  Sir  John  is  safe,"  she  added,  hardly 
knowing  what  to  say. 

"Yes,  dear  old  Jack  is  well.  I  had  a  cable  to-day. 
But  my  friend  is  a  very  charming  man,  so  artistic,  and 
with  such  a  wonderfully  poetic  nature.  He  is  a  very 
dear  friend,"  and  Lady  Cliffe  sighed,  and  took  off  her 
pretty  gloves. 

"I  suppose  he  was  in  the  Coldstream  Guards  in  the 
fight  at  Houtnek?  I  saw  the  account  last  night." 

"No,"  said  Lady  Cliffe,  "he  was  in  the  Yeomanry,  and 
he  was  wounded  in  a  mere  skirmish  at  the  Zand  River." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her.  She  felt  her  heart  throb 
like  a  hammer.  She  saw  Katherine  sitting  there  with 
her  glistening  rings,  and  her  white  hands  folded  on  the 
table,  'and  she  longed  to  seize  them  and  wring  the  name 
from  her,  but  she  answered  in  a  voice  which  sounded  to 
her  hoarse  and  unlike  her  own:  "The  Blankshire 
Yeomanry?  I  know  many  of  the  men;  they  came  from 
my  home." 

"It  is  Mr.  Errington  who  is  wounded,"  said  Katherine. 
"I  don't  suppose  you  have  met  him,  as  he  never  lived 
at  his  place;  but  he  is  delightful,  and  I  feel  so  anxious." 

"Have  you  had  news  lately?"  said  Elizabeth.  She 
stood  as  though  she  had  turned  to  a  stone. 

"Oh  yes,  to-day  I  heard  through  the  War  Office. 
He  is  at  hospital,  and  really  better.  He 

will  be  invalided  home  directly  he  is  well  enough." 

After  her  terrible  fear  Elizabeth  felt  a  great  storm 
rise  within  her.  Who  was  this  woman,  that  she  was 
able  to  learn  every  detail?  Had  she  loved  and  suffered 
like  herself?  Why  should  she  assume  that  detestable 
proprietorship?  Oh,  for  freedom  to  speak,  to  say  all 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  169 

that  Eric  had  been  to  her,  was  to  her  at  that  moment. 
Her  pulses  throbbed,  and  the  blood  rose  to  her  cheeks, 
but  she  turned  away  and  looked  out  into  the  court  to 
hide  the  feeling  which  would  betray  her. 

"He  is  a  perfect  dear,"  continued  Katherine,  un 
conscious  of  anything  unusual  in  Elizabeth's  manner. 
"So  musical,  with  such  a  glorious  voice.  Jack  is  very 
fond  of  him,  but  of  course  he  doesn't  the  least  understand 
anything  artistic — but  he  has  been  my  friend  for  years, 
long  before  I  was  married.  You  have  someone  out  there, 
haven't  you  ?"  she  said,  as  Elizabeth  still  stood  looking  out 
of  the  window.  "Is  he  all  right?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Elizabeth  dryly.  Words 
seemed  to  have  lost  meaning.  She  only  longed  to  be 
alone;  to  be  able  to  think  of  Eric  as  hers;  to  shut  out 
the  picture  of  this  beautiful  woman  who  talked  of  him 
as  though  she  owned  him  as  a  part  of  the  great  heritage 
she  already  possessed. 

Then  Katherine  began  to  speak  of  herself,  of  her 
plans  for  the  people  at  Chillam.  She  consulted  Elizabeth 
on  every  point,  and  the  subtle  charm  of  being  admired 
was  not  lost  upon  her,  and  she  began  to  relent. 

"You  will  help  me,  St.  Clara?"  she  said.  "When 
I  am  with  you  I  want  to  be  of  some  use,  and  you  are 
the  only  person  I  know  who  makes  me  really  want  to  be 
good.  .It  has  always  seemed  to  me,  that  everyone  I  meet 
who  does  good  work,  is  horribly  dull  and  dowdy;  but 
you  are  so  pretty,  and  you  would  be  so  much  admired. 
You  must  be  a  saint  to  be  buried  here,  just  living  for 
your  shimmies.  You  will  help  me?" 

They  discussed  many  plans.  Katherine  was  in 
telligent  as  well  as  sympathetic,  and  Elizabeth  felt  that 
all  resentment  toward  the  woman  was  gone,  only  a  dull 
aching  anxiety  lest  Eric  should,  after  all,  find  in  her 
brilliant  society  something  that  was  missing  in  her  hum- 


i  yo  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

drum  life.  But  then  Katherine  was  good;  she  was 
really  fond  of  Jack,  and  she  told  herself  the  fear  was  fool 
ish,  and  when  she  left  at  last  with  many  expressions  of 
affection,  the  predominant  feeling  in  her  mind  was  thank 
fulness  for  his  safety,  and  the  blessed  relief  of  knowing 
that  he  was  coming  home. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  gardens  at  Lentham  were  celebrated.  They  had 
been  copied  from  a  fine  French  design  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  Broad  marble  steps  glittered  on  the  green 
banks  of  grass,  and  white  balustrades  bordered  the  terraces 
which  divided  the  stretches  of  formal  flower-bed.  Bays 
cut  to  resemble  orange-trees  stood  in  long  rows,  and 
beneath  each  terrace  was  a  pergola,  giving  welcome  shade 
under  its  cloistered  roof  of  roses. 

Beyond  the  terraces  was  a  large  sunk  flower  garden, 
gay  with  geraniums,  calceolarias,  verbenas  and  begonias 
— the  garden  not  of  one  who  loves  flowers,  but  rather 
designed  for  a  mosaic  effect  of  color;  and  in  the  midst 
of  this  brilliant  parterre  marble  fountains,  with  fine  groups 
of  bronze  figures,  stood  white  and  gray  and  massive,  against 
the  green  slope  which  was  bordered  by  beech-trees,  where 
the  garden  touched  the  park.  The  whole  was  a  triumph 
of  artificial  taste,  carried  out  in  such  great  proportions 
as  to  justify  its  pretensions. 

On  a  glowing  summer  afternoon  late  in  August  a 
group  of  people  were  sitting  on  the  upper  terrace  in 
front  of  the  white  Georgian  house,  with  its  steps  and 
porticos  and  balconies.  A  carpet  had  been  spread  on  the 
gravel.  They  had  gathered  round  a  table  laden  with 
every  conceivable  five-o'clock  fare.  Lady  Hornden, 
tall,  handsome  and  beautifully  dressed,  pretended  to 
make  tea.  The  work  was,  however,  really  accomplished 
by  the  servant,  who  with  admirable  tact  supplied  each 
cup,  watching  his  opportunity  to  take  the  tea-pot  while 
the  hostess,  absorbed  in  conversation,  forgot  her  duties. 


172  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"I  often  wonder,"  she  was  saying,  "why  we  don't 
stay  in  the  country  all  the  summer;  it's  positively  in 
sensate  to  spend  such  months  in  London  in  the  really 
heavenly  time  of  the  year.  Don't  you  think  so,  Sir  James  ?  " 
she  said,  turning  to  an  elderly  man,  who  had  sunk  into 
a  chair  beside  her. 

"It's  delightful  to-day,  in  this  place  and  at  this  hour, 
but  I  always  feel  that  there  is  something  terrible  in  the 
country  when  one  is  alone.  It  is  like  being  with  a  silent, 
observing  friend,  whom  you  feel  is  taking  stock  of  your 
shortcomings.  The  hour  the  French  call  crepuscule  is 
appalling.  You  may  have  the  most  marvellous  cook 
in  the  world,  the  deathly  stillness  of  the  country  when 
you  are  alone  would  take  away  your  appetite." 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Lady 
Hornden.  "I  remember  a  summer  I  spent  here  the  year 
I  was  a  widow.  It  was  wonderfully  soothing.  Of  course 
I  was  in  deep  mourning.  Dear  Mr.  Fordwick,  do  have 
something  to  eat.  Won't  you  have  some  raspberries? 
Help  Mrs.  Rodney;  she  has  none.  I  used  to  sit  here 
looking  out  over  the  garden,  evening  after  evening,  and 
the  peace  was  delicious.  I  mean,  of  course,  in  my  great 
sorrow.  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  it!  Put  some  hot 
water  in  the  tea-pot,  Shorter,"  she  said  to  the  groom  of 
the  chambers,  who  was  hovering  near  her,  attentive  and 
imperturbable.  "How  I  used  to  look  out  and  wonder 
what  the  world  could  hold  for  me,  and  what  my  child's 
fate  would  be." 

"And  how  soon  she  could  decently  get  back  to  London," 
said  Anne  Rodney  in  a  low  voice  to  the  man  who  sat  next 
to  her. 

"Well,  it's  lucky  for  us  you  didn't  go  on  dreaming, 
but  woke  up  and  came  back  to  life.  The  world  would 
certainly  have  been  poorer  if  you  hadn't  given  dinners 
which  everyone  who  has  ever  eaten  them  must  remember," 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  173 

said  Sir  James.  "I  have  always  said  that  the  creme  de 
volatile  which  your  cook  invented  wrapped  round  quails 
is  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  eaten  of  the  sort.  Ah,  it's 
perfect!"  he  said,  half  closing  his  eyes  as  though  he  saw 
a  creation  of  great  beauty.  "And  his  caneton  Voisin 
far  better  than  Voisin's,  upon  my  honor  it  is." 

"Dear  Sir  James,  you  are  so  kind,"  said  Lady  Horn- 
den,  "and  of  course  you  are  the  best  judge  in  Europe. 
Oh,  everybody  knows  that,"  she  added,  as  he  made  a 
deprecatory  gesture. 

"It  makes  me  miserable  to  see  the  way  good  things 
are  positively  ruined  by  most  cooks,"  he  continued. 
"  Ton  my  word,  I  dine  out,  and  half  the  time,  with  a 
menu  a  quarter  of  a  yard  long,  there  is  absolutely  nothing 
edible.  Food  for  the  million  is  the  destruction  of  our 
English  cooking,  but  — 

"Tea,  dear  Mr.  Farningham?"  said  Lady  Hornden 
to  the  tall  limp  man  in  gray  who  had  just  come  up  to  the 
table.  "Fresh  tea,  Shorter.  I  can't  allow  you  to  drink 
this*  tannin  is  absolute  destruction  to  the  digestion." 

"How  heavenly  this  is,"  said  Mr.  Farningham,  sink 
ing  into  a  vacant  chair  on  the  other  side  of  Lady  Horn- 
den.  "As  I  came  up  the  terrace  you  made  a  beautiful 
picture,  a  group  by  Watteau  or  Boucher;  those  lovely 
colors" — and  he  touched  the  pale  lavender  lisse  gown 
in  which  Lady  Hornden  was  dressed — "and  Mrs.  Rod 
ney  in  that  note  of  blue  against  the  green  grass;  it  is 
perfect,"  and  he  helped  himself  to  foie  gras  as  well  as  egg 
sandwiches. 

Sir  James  looked  across  at  him,  and  said: 

"It  is  positive  profanity  to  eat  tea  when  you  are  going 
to  have  a  dinner  cooked  by  the  most  perfect  cook  in 
England." 

"Am  I?"  said  Mr.  Farningham.  "Well,  I  daresay 
I  shall  manage  both,"  and  he  laughed.  "Where  is 


174  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Lady  Cliffe?"  he  said,  looking  round  the  table.  "Is 
she  taking  care  of  the  invalid?  How  delicious  for 
him." 

Mr.  Farningham  was  sometimes  unfortunate  in  his 
remarks,  and  Lady  Hornden  looked  annoyed. 

"I  don't  know;  he  is  resting,  I  suppose,  and  Katherine 
had  a  headache.  Poor  darling!  She  worries  a  great 
deal  about  Jack,  and  they  are  expecting  more  fighting. 
Has  Lady  Cliffe  had  tea?"  she  said,  turning  to  the  man 
servant. 

"Her  ladyship  sent  for  it  to  the  little  summer-'ouse 
in  the  rose  gardin,"  said  the  man,  and  then  he  added: 
"And  Mr.  Errington  was  taking  his  with  her  ladyship." 

"Very  sensible,"  said  Sir  James  diplomatically;  "his 
wheeled  chair  is  difficult  to  get  up  and  down  these  banks." 
And  the  conversation  turned  to  other  channels. 

After  tea  Mrs.  Rodney,  walking  in  the  pergola  with 
Mr.  Fordwick,  said,  as  she  smoked  her  cigarette : 

"How  silly  it  is  of  dear  Lady  Hornden  to  keep  up 
this  absurd  farce  about  Katherine  and  Jack.  I  never 
saw  a  woman  more  engrossed  with  any  man,  or  a  man 
more  head  over  ears  in  love  with  a  woman.  She  has 
countenanced  everybody  else's  little  affairs  for  years. 
Why  is  she  to  pose  in  this  way  about  her  daughter?" 

"Because  she  is  really  a  very  sentimental  woman, 
and  she  has  settled  that  Katherine  is  to  be  a  model  wife 
to  the  man  she  chose,"  said  Air.  Fordwick,  with  a  little 
bitterness  in  his  tone. 

"Model  wives  don't  exist,"  said  Anne,  "except  in 
Brixton  or  Clapham.  They  are  as  extinct  as  the  dodo 
in  London." 

"Our  London,"  said  Mr.  Fordwick,  "is  a  very  little 
bit  of  the  world." 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  look  at  things  from  a  politician's 
point  of  view,  the  empire  on  which  the  sun  never  sets, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  175 

and  all  that  sort  of  bunkum ;  but  I  mean  the  world  I  know, 
and  live  in,  and  frankly  love,"  said  Anne.  "I  don't 
pose,  whoever  else  does." 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  the  young  man;  "but  still 
you  know,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  pose  not  to  pose." 

They  were  soon  joined  by  Mr.  Farningham. 

"What  a  pity  dear  Lady  Cliffe  affiches  this  sort  of 
thing  so  much,"  he  said.  "I'm  really  sorry  for  Lady 
Hornden.  Just  now,  too,  it's  not  good  taste,  with  the 
war  and  all  the  chances  it  brings  going  on,  and  the  ill- 
natured  way  people  talk." 

"You  mean,"  said  Anne,  "that  people  will  think 
she  hopes  to  hear  Jack's  dead?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Rodney,  I  never  said  that.  I  have  known 
Lady  Cliffe  ever  since  she  was  a  baby." 

"No,"  said  Anne,  "but  you  implied  it;  I  know  you're 
an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and  privileged,  no  doubt." 

Mr.  Farningham  afterward  said  he  liked  most  people, 
but  Mrs.  Rodney  was  coarse,  and  he  never  could  bring 
himself  to  like  a  coarse  woman.  And  Anne  Rodney, 
speaking  of  him  later  to  Mr.  Fordwick,  said: 

"How  I  hate  that  old  cat;  he  comes  and  laps  up 
all  the  scandal,  and  then  scratches  us  and  purrs  all  the 
while." 

The  rose  garden  was  bathed  in  the  afternoon  sun. 
The  second  bloom  of  roses  was  particularly  good,  and 
the  entrance  to  the  little  summer-house  was  nearly 
smothered  with  Laurette  Messime',  and  a  maze  cloud 
of  William  Allan  Richardson  climbed  in  riotous  con 
fusion  over  the  roof.  A  small  tea-table  was  spread  at 
which  Lady  Cliffe  sat,  becomingly  clad  in  a  simple  white 
washing  gown,  looking  particularly  slight  and  girlish. 

In  a  wheeled  chair  opposite  to  her  sat  Eric.  His 
face  was  very  white  and  his  features  pinched.  Pain 
had  undoubtedly  set  its  seal  upon  him.  The  waxen 


1 76  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

color  and  the  evident  shortness  of  breath  clearly  showed 
that  the  lungs  had  not  yet  recovered. 

"It  would  have  been  a  deal  nicer  at  Chillam,"  said 
Katherine.  "There  would  have  been  no  tiresome  visitors, 
and  we  should  have  just  done  as  we  liked;  but  mama 
suddenly  took  into  her  head  that  it  was  not  proper. 
Jack  would  have  loved  you  to  go." 

Eric  looked  across  at  her.  He  wondered  that  she 
should  speak  of  Jack.  Surely  she  must  know  what  he 
felt  for  her.  Why  bring  Jack  into  the  question  at  all? 
But  he  said: 

"You  know  how  I  should  have  loved  it;  still,  I  dare 
say  Lady  Hornden  is  right.  I  mean  she  is  right  to  think 
of  you.  My  life  is  broken,  it  does  not  matter  what  hap 
pens  to  me.  But  you  are  a  treasure  to  be  guarded," 
and  he  put  his  hand  on  hers  as  she  held  it  out  to  lift  some 
thing  off  the  table. 

"Guarded — guarded?  I  am  tired  of  hearing  that," 
said  Katherine.  "When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  was  guarded 
always;  no  play  with  other  children,  because  I  was 
guarded  from  risk  of  infection  or  unsuitable  companions. 
When  I  came  out,  just  the  same  thing,  guarded  against 
an  unsuitable  marriage,  and  I  was  guarded  with  a  ven 
geance;  mama  kept  a  hawk's  eye  on  me;  I  had  no  will 
of  my  own,"  and  Katherine  sighed. 

"What  made  you  marry  Jack?"  Eric  asked  suddenly. 

"Dear  old  Jack,"  said  Katherine,  "he  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  and  he  was  the  first  man  who  ever  spoke 
to  me  in  a  sort  of  manly  upright  way.  He  wras  so 
strong  and  straight,"  and  Katherine  looked  up  at  the 
long  rose-covered  way  under  the  terrace,  and  for  a  moment 
she  wavered,  and  felt  that  Jack  would  tell  her  she  was 
not  "playing  the  game." 

But  Eric  was  persistent.  He  bent  forward  and  looked 
into  her  eyes. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  177 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "tell  me  the  real  truth.  Do  you 
love  him?  Is  his  step  the  music  that  sets  your  heart 
beating  and  pulses  tingling?  Do  you  feel  you  want 
to  be  on  a  desert  island  with  him,  and  see  him  only  and 
no  one  else?  That's  love;  the  only  thing  that  any  dare 
call  by  that  name." 

Katherine  leant  back  in  her  chair  and  was  silent. 

"Do  you,  do  you?"  persisted  Eric. 

"No,  not  in  that  way.  I've  been  married  more  than 
two  years,  and  of  course — now — no,  I  never  did  feel 
all  that.  You  know  the  proverb,  '  Un  qui  baise  et  Vautre 
qui  tend  la  joue.'  I  suppose  I  have  held  out  my  cheek." 

"Of  course  you  have,  and  he  has  worshipped  you, 
because  he  has  seen  the  wonderful  thing  that  is  his," 
said  Eric  quickly.  "But  I  think  if  the  cheek  had  been 
held  out  to  me  I  should  have  so  kissed  it  that  I  should 
have  won  more  than  passive  love.  I  could  fancy  a  man 
who  laid  his  whole  life  at  your  feet  winning  from  you  all 
the  passion  of  love  of  which  you  are  capable,  for  you 
have  a  mine  which  has  never  yet  been  discovered — 
glowing  treasure  no  one  has  ever  owned.  Katherine, 
do  you  know  it?" 

His  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  His 
whole  being  seemed  to  have  gathered  strength.  As 
he  spoke  he  took  her  hand  and  held  it  tightly,  grasp 
ing  it  with  his  long  feverish  fingers. 

She  made  no  answer.  She  felt  half  frightened,  half 
pleased,  and  yet  she  had  not  intended  he  should  speak 
to  her  so  directly. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  went  on  quickly,  "how  I  love 
you — have  loved  you,  as  I  have  never  loved  another 
woman?  Do  you  know  how  I  thought  of  you  out  on 
the  veldt  at  night,  and  that  it  seemed  to  me  you  looked 
down  on  me  like  one  of  the  unattainable  stars  that  shone 
so  resplendent  and  so  far  away,  so  far  above  me?  And 

12 


178  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

when  I  came  back  a  weary  burden,  only  half  living, 
how  you  made  me  long  for  life — life  to  throw  at  your  feet, 
to  be  only  a  slave  to  your  happiness.  Do  you  know  it 
and  understand  it  all,  Katherine?" 

"Eric,  Eric,"  said  Katherine,  standing  up,  "don't, 
please  don't;  you  must  not  tell  me.  We  were  so  happy, 
and  if  you  say  it  all,  it  is  not  fair  to  Jack.  Let  us  keep 
it  as  a  sacred  thing." 

"Then  you  do  understand  it — feel  it;  oh,  my  love!" 

Eric  took  again  the  hand  that  hung  by  her  side,  and 
covered  it  with  kisses.  She  stooped  and  laid  the  other 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Eric,  don't  make  me  say  it,  only  let  us  be  happy 
together  while  we  can." 

The  long  shadows  were  lying  across  the  quiet  garden, 
and  the  faint  mist  of  the  late  summer  evening  was  be 
ginning  to  rise,  when  a  nurse  crossed  the  lawn,  and 
coming  toward  the  summer-house  said: 

"I  think  Mr.  Errington  ought  to  go  in,  my  lady.  Don't 
you  think  so,  sir?  The  damp  is  rising  now." 

"Yes,  nurse,"  said  Lady  Cliffe  quickly.  "You  are 
right."  And  it  was  with  almost  a  feeling  of  relief  that 
she  watched  the  wheeled  chair  pushed  toward  the 
house. 

"How  puzzling  life  is,"  she  thought,  as  she  walked 
slowly  after  it.  "Why  should  the  wrong  people  care 
so  much?  Jack  cares;  but  lots  of  women  would  have 
done  as  well,  whereas  Eric  has  an  affinity  which  he 
could  find  in  no  one  else;  a  passion;  a  devotion  never 
satisfied  before,  and  what  can  I  give  in  return?  I  won't 
let  him  talk  again  as  he  has  done  to-day,"  she  thought; 
"but  of  course  we  can  understand  each  other  without 
words." 

And  then  she  dressed  for  dinner,  and  came  down, 
looking  radiant,  with  eyes  that  shone  as  though  lit  by 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  179 

an  inward  flame,  and  with  the  far-away  look  and  the 
absent  manner  of  one  who  has  seen  a  vision. 

Lady  Hornden  was  seriously  disturbed.  She  did 
not  want  Katherine  to  make  a  fool  of  herself  in  Jack's 
absence.  She  had  no  very  high  ideals  of  conduct,  and 
she  was  always  glad  that  "the  right  people  should  meet" 
at  her  house.  But  a  maternal  instinct  made  her  wish 
to  protect  Katherine,  and  her  intuition  told  her  that  Eric 
would  be  selfish  and  vain.  She  remonstrated  with 
Katherine  to  no  purpose — she  found  she  could  make 
no  lasting  impression. 

"I  don't  see,"  she  said  to  her  mother,  "why  you  want 
me  to  be  different  to  other  people.  You  never  make 
any  fuss  when  Mrs.  Rodney  meets  Jimmy  Blacker,  or 
Mary  Winnington  has  Arthur  Warley  as  her  best  friend. 
Why  am  I  to  have  no  fun  ?  " 

"Because,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  "you're  a  fool,  Kath 
erine.  You  will  make  a  tragedy  of  a  thing  which  ought 
to  be  a  mere  passing  amusement,  and  Eric  is  absurd. 
No  man  need  look  as  though  he  were  going  to  be  executed 
directly  you  talk  to  anyone  else,  and  somehow  he  is  more 
compromising  with  all  his  die-away  airs  than  any  man 
I  ever  met.  I  wish  to  goodness  he  would  get  well  and 
go  away." 

"  Jack's  very  fond  of  Eric,"  said  Katherine. 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  said  her  mother. 
"Do  you  suppose  Jack,  with  all  his  straight-laced  prin 
ciples,  would  tolerate  him  if  he  thought  he  was  making 
love  to  you?  You  know  very  well  he  would  be  just  the 
sort  of  man  to  send  the  woman  he  loved  to  the  right 
about  if  he  thought  she  was  not  keeping  square.  He 
has  the  most  high-flown  ideas  about  honor  and  women 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  When  he  comes  back  again 
if  you  choose  to  have  Eric  as  a  hanger-on  and  he  does  not 
compromise  you,  but  behaves  sensibly,  that  is  another 


i8o  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

matter;  but,  believe  me,  if  Jack  gets  wind  of  all  this 
while  he  is  away,  there  will  be  a  fearful  row  when  he  gets 
home.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  Of  course 
these  good  men  are  splendid  and  faithful,  but  you  can't 
fool  about  with  them,  and  Eric  has  got  no  common  sense. 
I  loathe  artistic  men,  they're  always  mean." 

Katherine  tried  lamely  to  defend  Eric,  but  deemed 
it  prudent  to  argue  no  more,  and  settled  to  go  back  to 
London  as  soon  as  she  conveniently  could.  Eric  must 
get  rooms,  and  then  she  could  see  him  at  her  own  house 
and  avoid  constant  comment.  The  decorator  had 
finished  his  work  and  demanded  her  presence,  she  told 
her  mother. 

And  so  in  September,  when  London  was  compara 
tively  empty,  she  returned,  and  Eric,  who  was  making 
good  progress,  and  could  walk  a  little,  took  rooms  off 
St.  James's  Street,  where  an  excellent  manservant  re 
placed  the  services  of  a  nurse. 

The  changes  in  Katherine's  house  were  a  constant 
occupation  to  both,  and  he  was  enchanted  at  this  evidence 
of  the  ascendency  which  his  mind  and  taste  had  acquired 
over  hers,  even  at  a  time  when  he  had  scarcely  suspected 
it. 

During  the  pleasant  early  autumn  days  they  drove 
together  to  Kew  Gardens,  motored  to  Hindhead  and 
Haslemere,  read  together  and  talked  endlessly.  Eric 
had  not  again  openly  spoken  of  his  love  for  her,  but 
there  was  a  tacit  understanding  between  them,  which 
perhaps  fed  the  flame  of  their  affection  more  effectually 
by  reason  of  the  restraint  laid  upon  it.  As  each  day 
passed  their  plans  were  made  only  with  a  view  of  being 
together,  and  the  quiet  hours  of  rest  and  reading  in  the 
harmonious  surroundings  of  the  beautiful  house  had 
all  the  charm  of  domesticity,  and  none  of  its  prosaic 
responsibilities. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  181 

Katherine  had  divided  her  mind  into  compartments, 
and  was  careful  not  to  open  those  which  might  reveal 
anything  to  disturb  her  peace.  She  sometimes  had 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  if  she  were  to  search  deep  enough 
she  might  come  upon  a  hidden  hope,  stowed  in  the  farthest 
recess  of  her  heart,  that  everything  might  remain  as  long 
as  possible  just  as  it  was,  and  she  knew  that  this  involved 
an  indefinite  delay  in  Jack's  return.  She  tried  to  ignore 
the  existence  of  this  region,  to  avoid  introspection,  and  to 
drift  on  day  by  day  without  looking  forward. 

Her  correspondence  was  her  greatest  difficulty.  She 
was  never  a  good  letter-writer,  and  therefore  the  length 
of  her  letters  did  not  vary  very  much;  but  it  became 
more  and  more  impossible  to  reiterate  hopes  that  the 
war  would  speedily  end  and  that  soon  Jack  would  be 
home  again.  So  she  took  refuge  in  telling  him  that 
"all  was  well,"  that  he  need  have  no  anxiety  about  her, 
and  that  she  was  so  glad  (with  many  dashes)  to  hear  he 
was  "getting  on  all  right,"  that  the  war  was  "horrible," 
and  wasn't  he  "tired,  poor  dear,  of  being  so  uncomfort 
able?"  (more  dashes).  Once  she  added  a  postscript  to 
say  she  had  seen  Eric  and  that  he  was  nearly  well,  but 
she  closed  her  letter  quickly  and  did  not  re-read  it,  and 
afterward  wished  she  had  not  written  Eric's  name. 

Poor  Jack  used  to  take  these  letters  out  as  he  lay  on 
the  veldt,  and  try  and  piece  them  together  and  read 
between  the  lines  all  he  wanted  to  find,  but  the  task  was 
not  easy. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ELIZABETH  had  seen  in  an  evening  paper  the  fact  that 
Eric  was  invalided  home,  and  had  arrived  in  London, 
and  then  a  great  curtain  of  silence  had  fallen,  and  she 
knew  nothing  of  his  health,  his  movements,  or  his  plans. 
They  were  hard  days.  Michael  had  gone  on  a  visit  of 
inspection  to  some  German  factories,  and  she  had  been 
for  a  few  weeks  to  stay  with  her  uncle,  Lord  Oxenham. 
The  old  man  was  alone,  and  glad  to  have  his  niece  to  keep 
him  company  during  the  early  days  when  cub-hunting 
had  not  begun,  and  he  had  no  shooting  to  fill  his  time. 

"I  didn't  ask  your  aunt,  my  dear,"  he  said,  much 
to  Elizabeth's  relief.  "She  is  a  good  woman,  but  a 
bit  fussy,  and  I  thought  we  should  get  on  better  with 
out  her." 

So  Elizabeth  lay  under  the  big  elm-trees  and  read 
and  dreamed,  and  revelled  in  the  large  cool  rooms  and 
the  sense  of  leisure  and  quiet,  which  were  a  blessed  con 
trast  to  the  crowded  court  and  baking  streets;  but  early 
in  September  she  told  her  uncle  that  she  must  return. 

He  could  see  no  urgency,  but  she  insisted.  Cub- 
hunting  had  begun,  and  he  was  already  much  absorbed 
by  the  performances  of  his  young  hounds,  and  so  with 
some  ineffectual  remonstrance  from  him,  she  returned 
to  London,  where  the  heat  was  overpowering,  and  the 
smells  well-nigh  intolerable. 

She  went  out  into  the  court  to  find  Billy  Catchpole 
nursing  Louisa.  That  was  the  name  given  to  the  baby. 
Sally,  by  right  of  her  superior  years,  was  chief  nurse, 
but  on  those  rare  occasions  when  she  was  obliged  to  put 

182 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  183 

in  a  day  at  school  to  avoid  a  summons,  her  duties  fell 
on  Billy.  It  went  sorely  against  Sally's  inclination  to 
trust  him  with  such  a  charge,  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  Mrs.  Catchpole  said  she  was  too  busy  to  be 
bothered  with  the  child,  and  there  was  no  one  else  but 
Billy  to  mind  her  when  Sally  was  away.  So  reluctantly 
Sally  would  depart  for  school,  and  harrow  herself  all  the 
way  by  thoughts  of  what  might  await  her  arrival  at  home. 

Billy's  character  was  none  of  the  best.  He  had  been 
known  to  doss  out  for  a  week  at  a  time.  If  the  mood  to 
roam  came  on  while  the  baby  was  in  his  care,  she  knew 
that  as  likely  as  not,  rather  than  stay  at  home,  he  would 
take  the  baby  with  him.  He  might  fight  with  the  baby 
in  his  arms;  it  was  his  boast  that  he  could  beat  any  boy 
of  his  own  size,  and  some  bigger,  with  one  hand.  He 
might  be  run  over  in  the  street.  Sally's  mind  had  no  rest 
till  Louisa  was  back  in  her  arms. 

Before  the  appearance  of  the  baby,  Sally  had  been 
the  best  singer  in  the  court.  When  she  had  a  penny 
to  spare,she  laid  it  out  on  a  song-book,  and  from  it  she 
sang  the  fashionable  ballads  of  the  day;  but  Elizabeth 
noticed  that,  by  some  strange  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
she  never  sang  these  ballads  to  Louisa.  There  was 
evidently  not  one  she  considered  fit  for  her  ears,  so  she 
confined  herself  to  a  Salvation  Army  chorus,  called  "The 
Lion  of  Judah,"  and  a  hymn  she  had  picked  up  at  a 
mission  hall.  And  she  marvelled  still  more  at  the  child 
when  she  saw  that  Polly,  with  a  voice  not  half  so  good 
as  Sally's  and  a  bad  memory  for  last  verses,  had  taken 
her  place  as  singer  to  the  court;  but  Sally  shook  her 
shaggy  head,  and  seemed  to  think  she  could  afford  to  per 
mit  it,  for  her  hymns  and  choruses  were,  she  believed, 
charms  to  ward  off  evils  from  Louisa. 

Billy,  who  was  lacking  in  all  religious  feeling,  jeered 
at  Sally's  piety,  and  sang  to  Louisa  the  only  street  song 


184  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

he  knew,  which  was  "Her  golden  hair  was  hanging 
down  her  back,"  and  the  baby  opened  her  eyes  and 
rolled  her  helpless  little  head,  and  appeared  to  prefer 
it  to  Sally's  hymns. 

Elizabeth  stood  on  this  sultry  day  and  watched  Billy 
nursing  the  baby.  His  quick  bright  eyes  were  following 
the  movements  of  half  a  dozen  urchins  who  were  playing 
pitch  and  toss,  and  his  little  black  hands  clasped  the 
ragged  bundle  as  he  rocked  it  to  and  fro  on  his  knee, 
which  was  showing  a  grimy  pink  through  his  torn 
trousers. 

Presently  he  caught  sight  of  Elizabeth,  and  with  a 
broad  smile  he  looked  up,  and  said: 

"  'Ullo,  Mrs.  Maynell."  It  was  the  usual  greeting 
of  the  children  of  the  court. 

"How's  baby,  and  Sally?"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Sally's  'elping  mover,"  he  said.  "Ain't  no  school; 
it's  'olidays.  Lots  on  'em's  gorn  into  the  country." 

"Would  you  like  to  go?"  said  Elizabeth. 

Billy  looked  up  quickly.  He  had  heard  so  much 
about  it  from  the  boys  who  had  been  there.  They  had 
told  him  of  the  thousands  of  fields  where  everyone  might 
play,  and  the  woods  full  of  bears  and  gipsies,  and  wild 
horses  that  you  might  ride  if  you  caught  them,  of  the 
fish  they  had  seen  jumping  out  of  the  river,  and  worms 
going  about  at  night  with  lamps  on  their  heads. 

"Just  think  as  I  should!"  he  said,  as  the  remem 
brance  came  quickly  like  a  passing  panorama. 

"I'll  try  and  get  you  a  ticket,"  said  Elizabeth,  and 
left  Billy  in  a  state  of  bewildered  happiness. 

She  walked  on  a  while  to  see  some  of  her  friends  and 
some  sick  folk  who  were  caged  up  in  their  horrible  little 
rooms,  which  smelt  worse  than  usual.  And  then,  with 
a  sort  of  despair,  she  turned  her  steps  to  the  great  thor 
oughfare,  walked  about  a  mile,  and  then  down  some 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  185 

more  narrow  streets,  and  stood  before  a  gaunt  red-brick 
house,  with  many  windows  and  no  curtains.  She  was 
presently  sitting  in  Father  Martin's  study.  He  was 
bending  over  a  large  writing-table,  in  his  small  writing- 
room,  but  got  up,  stretching  out  both  hands  to  greet  her. 

"I'm  glad  you're  back.  Sit  down,"  he  said,  clearing 
a  chair  of  a  pile  of  books  and  papers.  "Are  you  better 
for  your  rest?  I  have  often  thought  of  you  in  the  cool 
green  of  the  summer  woods.  Yes,  it's  quite  right, 

If  Eden  be  on  earth  at  all 

'Tis  that  which  we  the  country  call. 

And  yet  it  is  not  Eden  we  are  seeking;  it's  only  external, 
after  all.  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  within  you.  Now 
tell  me  about  yourself."  And  he  looked  at  her  with  his 
kind  penetrating  eyes. 

The  look  of  weariness  on  her  face  did  not  escape  him, 
but  he  knew  too  much  of  human  nature  to  forestall  a 
confidence. 

"Yes,  the  country  was  heavenly,"  said  Elizabeth, 
"but—  "  and  she  hesitated. 

"You  wanted  to  take  all  the  world  with  you,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  believe  the  worst  form 
of  selfishness  is  that  which  wants  to  make  others  happier 
in  order  to  enjoy  one's  self  more  fully,"  and  she  laughed. 

"I  wish  to  God  people  were  usually  affected  with 
that  .form  of  selfishness,"  said  Father  Martin.  "But 
Elizabeth,"  he  said,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  "you 
are  discovering  the  oneness  of  the  human  family,  that 
happiness  and  sadness  which  affect  one  creature  really 
affect  all;  but  I  want  you  to  find  out  something  else 
which  changes  life  still  more  completely:  that  you  and 
I  and  everyone  are  working  out  some  great  beneficent 
plan,  evolved  not  by  a  Creator  who  plays  with  us  like 


i86  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

pawns,  and  moves  us  to  suit  His  game;  but  that  we  are 
a  part  of  Himself,  and  indispensable  to  His  great  end, 
and  that  as  we  understand  this  we  intelligently  lend  our 
selves  to  His  schemes,  and  co-operate  with  Him;  and  the 
more  this  sense  of  our  union  with  God  develops,  the 
more  true  understanding  we  have  of  what  the  redemp 
tion  of  man  really  is." 

Elizabeth  listened. 

"Things  we  can  do  seem  so  poor  and  so  tiny  and 
so  insignificant,"  she  said. 

"Nothing  is  insignificant,"  said  Father  Martin.  "The 
builder  puts  brick  upon  brick,  whether  he  is  going  to 
build  a  tenement  for  the  herded  poor  in  Whitechapel, 
or  a  palace  for  the  doges  in  Venice.  It's  design  which 
signifies,  the  ultimate  idea.  You  are  putting  your  work 
into  the  right  design.  Have  patience,"  he  added  gently. 

"Darwin  says  the  earth-worms  transform  the  world, 
but  they  don't  know  they  are  doing  it,"  said  Elizabeth, 
"only  wriggling  blindly  through  their  work.  I  find 
it  so  hard  to  wriggle,"  and  she  laughed,  but  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

"Not  blindly,"  said  Father  Martin,  "not  blindly. 
There  is  the  'light  that  lighteth  every  man.'  The  great 
personal  love,  beyond  which  we  can  never  go,  and  beautiful 
human  affection,  which  is  a  very  integral  gart  of  it." 
And  he  looked  at  her  and  thought  of  Michael. 

"Human  affection?  I  wish  we  could  be  born  without 
it.  That  is  what  makes  life  hard  and  bitter  and  sad," 
said  Elizabeth,  and  she  got  up  to  go. 

"Was  that  the  reason  she  came  to  work  in  the  slums?" 
thought  the  old  man.  But  the  conversation  was  abruptly 
interrupted.  Miss  Osterley  rushed  into  the  room.  She 
had  scarcely  time  to  give  a  breathless  greeting  to  Elizabeth 
when  she  produced  from  under  her  arm  a  roll  of  papers. 

"I  have  come,   Mr.   Martin,   to  ask  your  signature. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  187 

A  most  atrocious  thing  is  being  done,  and  some  of  us 
are  getting  up  a  timely  protest.  I  can't  explain  the 
details  before  Elizabeth,  but  it's  a  real  disgrace  to  our 
civilization,  and  the  Home  Office  should  be  approached 
without  delay." 

Father  Martin  took  up  the  long  paper,  and  as  he  read  his 
brows  knit,  and  a  look  of  grave  care  came  into  his  face. 

"Of  course  I  will  sign  the  sense  of  this,"  he  said,  "but 
I  confess  I  don't  like  the  form." 

"It's  no  use  watering  it  down,"  said  Miss  Osterley, 
"we  must  be  plain,  or  else  these  men  don't  understand 
us.  We  can't  take  a  pair  of  gloves  to  suit  the  fastidious," 
she  said,  eagerly  looking  at  him. 

"I  will  go  through  it  with  you  presently."  He  shook 
hands  with  Elizabeth,  who  was  prepared  to  go,  and 
opening  the  door,  he  said  to  her  as  she  passed,  "Courage 
and  faith  and  patience,  these  three  things  I  shall  pray 
for,  for  you." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.     "I  need  them  all." 

Then  he  returned  to  his  table  with  a  sigh,  and  listened 
while  Miss  Osterley  poured  out  the  vials  of  her  wrath 
upon  man  in  general,  but  governing  man  in  particular. 


October  came,  with  cool  air,  bright  mornings  and 
golden  afternoons  drawing  suddenly  to  a  close,  as  the 
violet  distance  changed  into  grey  mist,  a  time  of  diffused 
sunlight  and  quivering  shadows,  the  beginning  of  the 
year's  old  age,  when  careful  preparation  must  be  made 
for  the  day  when  work  will  cease  in  rick  and  barn,  the 
gathering  in  of  all  that  has  been,  the  setting  of  the  world's 
house  in  order  for  what  is  still  to  come. 

Day  after  day  Katherine  took  Eric  through  the  deep 
lanes  of  Surrey,  out  over  the  heather  fields  of  Sussex, 
across  the  sweep  of  the  Hampshire  downs,  traversing 


1 88  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

miles  as  the  motor  flew.  Often  they  would  sit  for  hours, 
speaking  scarcely  a  word,  content  to  be  together,  and  to 
watch  the  constantly  changing  beauty  of  the  autumn 
world. 

The  very  sense  of  his  presence  beside  her  seemed 
to  hold  Katherine  in  a  spell;  she  felt  she  had  all  she 
wanted,  except  one  thing,  the  permanence  of  her  hap 
piness.  How  could  she  live  when  these  days  were  over 
— when  Eric  was  well  again,  for  his  strength  was  returning 
to  him  fast?  But  she  tried  to  forget  that  such  a  time 
must  come,  and  to  live  only  in  the  sensuous  pleasure  of 
the  sunny  present. 

"What  a  sense  of  preparation  there  is  everywhere 
now,"  said  Eric  to  her,  as  they  passed  the  farmhouses 
set  in  golden  ricks,  and  the  apple  orchards  where  the 
sunlight  flickered  through  the  branches,  making  a  net 
work  of  shadow  on  the  grass,  and  touching  the  scarlet 
and  yellow  apples  which  lay  in  heaps  beneath  the  trees. 
"Doesn't  it  all  seem  to  speak  of  fulfilment  and  success, 
the  ingathering  of  the  world's  work?" 

"No,  not  to  me,"  said  Katherine.  "It  seems  to  me 
to  be  inexpressibly  sad,  for  even  the  sunshine  is  only 
the  light  of  a  dying  summer.  Some  people  like  old  people ; 
to  me  they  are  horrible.  I  hope  I  never  may  be  old ;  there 
seems  to  me  to  be  no  satisfaction  in  remembering  hap 
piness;  it  can  only  bring  a  mad  wish  to  have  it  all  over 
again." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Eric.  "I  think  I  have 
seen  old  people  who  were  happy." 

"Only  while  they  were  not  sure  they  were  really  old," 
said  Katherine.  "  Don't  let's  talk  of  it ;  old  age  is  always 
hideous;  I  can't  bear  it.  The  beginning  of  the  years 
of  old  age,  when  the  beautiful  days  are  over,  and  when 
the  joy  of  it  all  is  gone,"  and  she  shuddered  as  she  won 
dered  how  soon  that  would  be. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  189 

The  weather  suddenly  changed  and  relentless  rain 
set  in.  The  country  was  blotted  out  in  mist,  sodden 
and  forlorn,  and  Katherine  wondered  what  could  fill 
the  wretched  afternoon,  and  remembered  Elizabeth. 
She  had  not  thought  of  her  lately,  but  with  the  recol 
lection,  she  determined  to  take  Eric  to  Marshom  Street. 
It  would  be  a  new  experience,  this  meeting  with  St. 
Clara.  She  ordered  her  electric  brougham,  and  as  she 
stood  after  luncheon  in  the  hall,  drawing  on  her  long 
gloves,  she  said: 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  for  a  new  drive  to-day.  We 
can't  motor  into  the  country,  so  I  am  going  to  take  you 
to  the  slums." 

"Good  heavens!  How  horrible!  What  have  you 
and  the  slums  got  to  do  with  each  other?  I  have  a 
horror  of  smells,  and  I  never  could  get  up  any  enthusiasm 
for  dirty  people." 

"Ah,  but  I'm  not  going  to  take  you  to  dirty  people, 
but  to  see  a  saint  who  lives  in  a  court,  in  order  to  help 
them  by  being  there." 

"I  hate  saints,  too,"  said  Eric.  "It's  only  when  a 
woman  has  lost  her  looks  and  her  youth,  that  she  takes 
to  good  works  to  make  the  scales  balance  by  throw 
ing  in  a  few  good  deeds.  I  know  the  sort  of  people. 
Can't  we  go  to  Dowdeswell's  galleries  to  see  those  heavenly 
drawings  of  Miss  BlackwelFs  instead?" 

"You  wait  until  you  have  seen  my  saint,"  said  Katherine. 

"Oh,  I  know  the  whole  tribe,"  said  Eric,  "beastly 
bores,  in  bad  clothes,  who  are  always  trying  to  reform 
somebody  else." 

"Wait,"  said  Katherine  laughing. 

The  brougham  made  its  silent  passage  through  the 
mazes  of  mean  streets  lined  with  costermongers'  barrows 
and  crowded  with  dirty  people,  until  it  came  to  Marshom 
Street,  and  stopped  at  the  corner  house. 


i9o  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Elizabeth  was  visiting  in  the  court.  She  had  sent 
Martha  out  with  some  soup  to  a  sick  woman,  and  the 
small  person  known  as  "the  girl"  opened  the  front 
door,  and  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  liveried  servant 
who  stood  before  her. 

"Miss  Maynell  was  out,  but  she  didn't  believe  as 
she  would  be  long  gone." 

Katherine,  who  heard  the  message,  did  not  wait  for 
it  to  be  repeated,  but  got  out  of  the  brougham,  crossed 
the  muddy  pavement  and  beckoned  Eric  to  follow  her. 
They  entered  the  little  parlor  and  sat  down. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Eric.  "This  room  stamps 
your  saint.  How  could  any  individual  be  found  to 
live  in  such  unmitigated  ugliness?" 

"Wait,"  said  Katherine  again. 

A  few  photographs  were  on  the  mantelpiece  and  a 
great  many  books  on  the  shelves.  These  were  the  only 
additions  Elizabeth  had  made,  but  Eric  did  not  trouble 
to  get  up  and  look  at  them,  but  sat  thinking  how  pretty 
Katherine  looked,  even  with  so  squalid  a  background. 

Presently  the  front  door  opened  and  Katherine  went 
into  the  passage  to  meet  Elizabeth. 

"Dearest  St.  Clara,"  she  cried,  "what  ages  since  I 
have  seen  you!  I  had  to  come  to-day;  I  felt  I  must 
not  lose  sight  of  you,  and  I  have  brought  you  a  visitor." 

Elizabeth  looked  tired  and  pale.  There  had  been 
a  great  deal  of  sickness  in  the  district  after  the  hot  weather. 
She  was  genuinely  glad  to  see  Katherine;  it  seemed  like 
a  breath  of  air  from  a  wider  plane,  and  the  thought  had 
sprung  up  in  her  heart  that  she  might  get  news  of  Eric. 
So  the  color  came  into  her  face  as  she  took  her  hand, 
and  Katherine  kissed  her  cheek.  She  was  so  sorry  to 
hear  there  was  someone  with  her.  She  was  afraid  she 
might  not  speak  of  Eric,  but  Katherine  took  her  arm 
and  drew  her  into  the  parlor. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  191 

The  afternoon  light  was  dim,  as  the  day  was  dark, 
and  the  tall  figure  of  the  man  sitting  against  the  window 
got  up  as  they  came  in.  Eric  recognized  Elizabeth  a 
moment  before  the  consciousness  of  his  presence  had 
reached  her. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  thought.  "What  will  she  do? 
Will  she  say  she  knows  me,  or  will  she  not?" 

He  stood  up,  tall  and  hesitating.  Elizabeth  looked 
for  a  moment,  then  the  fact  came  flooding  up  round 
her,  and  she  felt  as  though  she  was  losing  hold  of  real  life. 

What  had  he  come  for?  was  the  first  thought  in  her 
mind;  but  Katherine's  words  quickly  dispelled  any 
illusion  on  that  score. 

"St.  Clara,  I  have  brought  my  great  friend,  Mr.  Er- 
rington,  to  see  you.  He  is  devoted  to  everything  artistic, 
and  I  wanted  him  to  see  that  a  jewel  is  always  beautiful, 
even  in  a  horrible  setting.  Mr.  Errington,  this  is  St. 
Clara — Miss  Maynell." 

The  pause  that  followed  seemed  an  eternity.  Elizabeth 
did  not  look  at  him,  but  she  bowed  toward  the  place  where 
he  stood,  and  turned  to  Katherine. 

Eric's  first  feeling  was  one  of  relief,  and  then  he  re 
sented  the  reception. 

"So  she  no  longer  cares  a  button,"  he  thought.  "How 
like  a  woman!" 

Katherine  was  disappointed.  She  felt  Elizabeth's 
want  of  courtesy.  She  ought  to  show  more  consider 
ation  to  her  guests.  But  she  went  on  talking  to  her, 
trying  from  time  to  time  to  draw  Eric  into  the  conversation. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  "you  come  from  the  same 
country.  Miss  MaynelFs  home  is  at  Ilbury,"  turning 
to  him.  "Only,  I  suppose,  as  you  never  lived  there, 
you  could  not  have  met;  but  I  expected  you  knew  his 
old  uncle,  didn't  you?"  she  said,  smiling  encouragingly 
at  Elizabeth. 


I92  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"I  have  met  him."  Then  a  dead  pause.  Eric  felt 
as  though  his  tongue  was  parched  and  as  hard  as  a  parrot's. 
He  tried  in  a  harsh  tone  to  make  some  remarks  about 
that  part  of  London.  He  did  not  address  Elizabeth 
•directly,  but  talked  through  Lady  Cliffe,  as  though  she 
occupied  the  chair. 

Elizabeth  sat  very  white  and  still. 

"She  must  have  had  some  sorrow,"  thought  Katherine, 
and  then  she  said:  "Mr.  Errington  is  invalided  home; 
he  was  badly  wounded.  You  remember  I  told  you. 
Have  you  good  news  of  your  friend  in  South  Africa?" 
she  asked  hesitatingly. 

"He  is  dead,"  said  Elizabeth  shortly.  She  felt  it 
was  true  as  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

"How  shocking!"  said  Katherine.  Of  course  that 
fully  accounted  for  Elizabeth's  extraordinary  manner. 
The  sight  of  another  man  who  had  safely  returned  was 
too  much  for  her.  She  took  Elizabeth's  hand  and  held 
it.  "I  am  so  sorry,"  she  whispered. 

Eric  looked  out  of  the  window.  Katherine  rose  to 
go,  and  Eric  stood  up  by  her  side. 

Never  before  had  such  a  burning  anger  possessed 
the  soul  of  Elizabeth.  Had  he  come  to  insult  her? 
Had  he  come  here  with  Lady  Cliffe  to  show  her  the 
woman  for  whom  he  had  left  her?  She  hated  him  as 
women  only  hate  those  whom  they  really  love.  . 

"I  may  come  again,  dearest,"  said  Lady  Cliffe,  as 
she  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks.  "I  am  so  awfully  grieved. 
May  I  come  and  talk  it  over?" 

"No,  don't,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I  have  not  time, 
indeed  I  haven't,"  she  answered  almost  passionately. 

Katherine  looked  bewildered,  kissed  her  again  and 
turned  to  go.  As  she  passed  out  of  the  door  Eric  paused 
an  instant,  and  said  in  a  hurried  whisper: 

"I  didn't  know,  believe  me,  I  didn't,  or  I  would  not 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  193 

have  come  without  your  permission.  You  know  that, 
don't  you?" 

Elizabeth  made  no  answer,  held  open  the  door  and 
let  him  pass  out,  and  then  turned  and  flung  herself 
down  dry-eyed  and  buried  her  head  in  her  hands. 

"So  that  is  the  end,"  she  said— "the  end."  And 
her  heart  ached  till  it  was  physical  pain. 

"You  mustn't  judge  her,"  said  Katherine  to  Eric  as 
they  drove  away.  "  She's  not  a  bit  like  that  usually ;  it  must 
be  the  death  of  her  friend.  She  seems  terribly  cut  up." 

"Does  she?"  said  Eric  vaguely,  and  began  to  talk 
of  other  things. 

That  evening  Eric  dined  at  Hill  Street.  A  wood 
fire  burned  in  the  grate,  for  the  evening  was  still  chilly 
and  they  were  glad  to  find  it  when  they  came  up  from 
the  dining-room.  A  shaded  electric  light  stood  on  the 
table  near  Katherine's  chair.  The  rest  of  the  room 
was  in  shadow,  lit  only  by  the  flickering  light  from  the 
fire.  Katherine,  dressed  in  a  long  white  gown-tea,  bent 
over  her  work,  and  Eric  sat  smoking  in  a  chair  on  the 
other  side  of  her  table. 

The  room  was  filled  with  the  scent  of  hothouse  flowers 
brought  from  the  conservatories  at  Lentham,  and  Eric 
leaned  back  with  a  sense  of  special  enjoyment. 

By-and-by  he  went  to  the  piano  and  began  playing 
Tannhauser.  The  magic  of  the  music  possessed  him, 
but  now  and  then  he  would  pause  and  call  to  her : 

"Don't  you  remember  how  this  goes?"  and  hum  a 
bar  and  play  again.  "And  this — and  this?"  and  he 
played  on.  "Why,  in  that  song,  there  is  the  whole 
passion  of  the  human  heart." 

Katherine  rose  and  leaned  over  the  piano.  He  did 
not  look  at  her;  he  seemed  to  see  nothing.  By-and- 
by  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  with  an  eager,  hungering 
look,  but  still  played  on. 


i94  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Dank  deiner  Huld  gepriesen  sei  dein  Lieben!" 

"Ah,  that's  when  it  comes,"  he  said,  "that  cry  of 
the  heart!" 

"Ich  lass'  dich  nicht!   Du  darfst  nicht  von  mir  ziehen!" 

And  then  he  turned  suddenly  from  the  piano,  and 
put  out  his  arms  and  folded  her  in  them,  raining  kisses 
on  her  lips  and  throat. 

"You  know  it.  Say  you  know  it,  the  wonderful 
glory  of  love.  My  darling,  my  fair  one,  look  at  me, 
look  at  me.  Say  just  one  word,  '  I  love  you ! '  ' 

Katherine  felt  blinded,  bewildered.  His  arms  held  her.  Her 
whole  being  was  overwhelmed  by  the  torrent  of  his  passion. 

"You  know,"  she  murmured,  "you  know.  Oh, 
don't  blame  me.  I  can't,  I  am  helpless.  What  can  I 
do?  Yes,  yes,  I  love  you,  but  don't  ask  me  any  more. 
Let  me  go.  Even  though  it  is  pain,  I  must  not  stay." 

"But  your  heart  says  stay  here,  in  the  place  appointed 
for  you  from  the  beginning  of  the  world." 

"Eric,  Eric,"  she  whispered,  putting  her  face  close 
to  his,  "it  is;  I  believe  it  is  the  only  place  where  I  could 
find  the  fullness  of  love,  but  I  have  forfeited  it.  Don't 
let  me  forget  that  I  want  to  be  straight.  Oh,  help  me 
Eric,"  and  with  a  sort  of  desperation  she  wrenched  herself 
from  him  and  left  the  room. 

Upstairs  she  flung  herself  on  her  bed.  She  felt  his 
kisses  on  her  face,  and  the  pressure  of  his  arms;  the 
charm  of  his  whole  being  invaded  her;  then,  as  she  grew 
calmer,  she  got  up  and  wralked  about  the  room.  A 
picture  of  Jack  was  on  her  dressing-table.  She  did 
not  want  it  there,  nor  did  she  like  to  move  it.  By-and- 
by,  when  her  excitement  subsided,  it  seemed  as  though 
she  had  lost  something.  She  felt  she  was  not,  as  she 
had  been  an  hour  ago,  fearless  before  all  the  world. 
There  was  something  to  hide,  and  she  was  ashamed. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LADY  HORNDEN  had  come  to  London  to  get  her  autumn 
clothes,  and  also  because  she  was  really  anxious  about 
Katherine.  She  was  standing  in  her  bedroom  in  Park 
Lane,  surrounded  by  bandboxes,  which  her  maid  was 
feverishly  unpacking. 

"Please,  my  lady,  there's  a  person  from  Madame 
Lili  with  hats,"  said  the  servant. 

"Tell  her  to  wait,"  answered  Lady  Hornden,  "and 
I'm  expecting  some  from  Madame  Albert.  Tell  them 
to  leave  them  on  approbation.  Now  go  on,  Henriette, 
make  haste  and  let  me  see  if  these  things  are  fit  to  wear." 

She  tried  on  gown  after  gown,  as  Henriette  released 
them  from  the  network  of  tapes  with  which  they  had 
been  secured  by  the  careful  French  packer  in  the  great 
Parisian  house  from  whence  they  came.  Lady  Hornden 
stood  before  the  long  looking-glass. 

"The  sleeves  are  not  right,"  she  said  critically,  looking 
at  herself.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  define  where 
there  was  a  fault  on  account  of  the  apparent  absence  of 
that  part  of  the  gown. 

"Look,  Henriette,  thou  seest  this  velvet  should  have 
been  two  inches  lower.  Cela  m'engonce,"  she  said  in 
French.  "  The  lines  are  bad." 

"My  lady  is  wrong,"  said  the  maid,  "Jest  par  fait, 
c'esl  d'un  chic.  Le  corsage  est  ravissant!  Miladi  est 
moulee." 

"Of  course,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  "so  it  ought  to, 
coming  from  Vendre",  but  there  should  be  no  fault,  and 
thou  must  be  blind  not  to  see  the  decolletage  is  wrong." 


196  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

She  stood  there,  tall  and  good-looking,  absorbed  in 
the  clothes,  when  a  knock  called  the  maid  to  the  door. 
A  telegram  lay  on  the  silver  tray  the  manservant  held. 
She  took  it  to  Lady  Hornden,  who  laid  it  on  her  dressing- 
table,  while  once  more  she  twisted  round,  holding  her 
handglass  to  take  another  critical  look  at  the  back. 

"II  demande  s'il  y  a  une  reponse,  miladi"  said  Hen- 
riette. 

Still  absorbed  in  the  scrutiny,  she  held  out  one  hand 
for  the  telegram  and  tore  it  open.  As  she  read  it  she 
gave  a  cry  and  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  stool  at  her 
dressing-table,  with  the  pink  paper  in  her  lap. 

"I  deeply  regret  to  inform  you  that  among  the  list 
of  casualties  just  received  from  South  Africa  is  the  name 
of  Sir  John  Cliffe,  who  was  killed  in  the  action  at  Diamond 
Hill.  Please  convey  news  to  Lady  Cliffe.  List  will  be 
published  to-night. — Rainsbury." 

"My  God!"  said  Lady  Hornden,  very  white.  "How 
horrible!"  And  then  her  thoughts  flew  to  Katherine. 
How  would  she  take  it?  Would  she  marry  Eric  at 
last,  after  all  the  trouble  she  had  taken  to  prevent  it? 
Dear  old  Jack — the  very  best  man  she  knew — dead. 
Her  mind  was  in  a  tumult.  Katherine  must  be  told 
at  once,  before  the  papers  came  out.  It  was  one  o'clock; 
there  wasn't  a  minute  to  be  lost. 

"Order  the  brougham,"  she  said  in  an  unsteady  voice. 
"Bring  me  some  brandy  and  soda,"  she  added  feebly. 
Her  strength  was  going;  her  knees  trembled.  She  sat 
there,  white  as  death,  with  her  evening  gown  on  in  broad 
daylight. 

"Quick,  Henriette,  get  me  out  of  this;  give  me  a 
black  gown,  anything,  quick!  I  have  got  to  get  to  Lady 
Cliffe." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  197 

Never  had  she  dressed  with  such  haste.  Henriette 
read  the  telegram  as  it  lay  on  the  table  when  she  went 
to  fetch  a  buttonhook  to  put  on  miladi's  boots,  and  re 
doubled  her  haste,  working  with  quick  sympathetic 
fingers  to  get  her  ready. 

"C'esi  accablant!"  she  muttered  to  herself,  as  Lady 
Hornden  left  the  room.  "  Mon  dieu!  11  elait  si  bien, 
Sir  John." 

Jennings  was  waiting  in  the  hall;  she  stopped  and 
spoke  to  him. 

"I  have  had  very  bad  news.  Sir  John  has  been  killed. 
I  am  going  to  Lady  Cliffe;  it  will  break  her  heart." 

The  man  stood  very  upright,  with  his  arms  hanging 
straight  to  his  sides.  A  look  of  real  concern  came  into 
his  face. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  my  lady,  very  sorry  indeed.  Sir 
John  was  a  gentleman.  I  am  very  sorry." 

She  drove  to  Hill  Street.  The  short  distance  never 
seemed  so  long,  the  stepping  horses  never  so  absurdly 
slow. 

Was  Lady  Cliffe  in?  She  waited  feverishly  for  the 
servant  to  cross  the  pavement. 

"No,  my  lady,"  said  the  footman. 

Lady  Hornden  called  the  servant  to  speak  to  her 
at  the  carriage  door.  When  had  she  gone  out?  When 
would  she  be  back?  Where  was  she?  The  questions 
came  crowding  out,  bewildering  the  man.  He  looked 
puzzled. 

Her  ladyship  had  left  early;  gone  out  alone,  he  said. 
She  might  be  in  to  lunch  or  she  might  not. 

Where  did  he  think  she  had  gone  ? 

"I  believe  the  place  was  Marshom  Street,  or  some 
such  name,"  said  the  man.  "It  wasn't  in  any  neighbor 
hood  I  know  of,  but  I  think  it's  some  charity  'er  ladyship 
goes  to." 


198  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Marshom  Street?  Lady  Hornden  had  never  heard 
of  it.  Could  he  find  out  from  the  maid  when  she  would 
be  back?  He  went  upstairs;  he  seemed  to  be  gone 
a  lifetime.  Then  he  returned  with  an  address  scribbled 
on  paper. 

"This  is  where  the  maid  thinks  'er  ladyship  is,  my 
lady,"  he  said.  The  address  was  in  the  East  End. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Lady  Hornden.  "Where  is 
that?  How  long  will  it  take  me?" 

"The  best  part  of  an  hour,"  said  the  man. 

"Then  I  will  come  in  and  wait."  I  may  only  pass 
her  on  the  way,  she  thought,  and  she  will  see  the  paper. 

By-and-by  the  servant  came  to  her  with  an  open  book. 

"I  see  there  is  a  telephone  in  the  'ouse;  shall  I  send 
a  message?" 

"Ring  them  up,  and  I  will  speak,"  said  Lady  Hornden, 
thankful  to  have  something  to  occupy  the  anxious  moments. 


Louisa  had  measles.  Mrs.  Catchpole  was  very  com 
placent  about  the  baby's  illness,  but  Billy  and  Sally  thought 
seriously  of  the  matter.  Measles  had  raged  in  the  court 
all  the  summer;  it  was  measles  the  Murphy's  baby  had, 
and  something  else  that  measles  brought  along  with  it, 
and  the  Murphy  baby  died.  It  was  measles  too  that 
had  given  Sarah  Green's  baby  the  blight,  and  left  it  blind 
with  one  eye. 

Mrs.  Catchpole  said  Louisa  would  soon  be  well.  She 
wrapped  her  in  a  blanket,  and  told  Sally  to  keep  her  in 
doors  for  a  day.  So  both  Sally  and  Billy  stayed  in  and 
played  with  Louisa,  and  felt  the  importance  that  was 
theirs  in  the  eyes  of  the  court,  there  being  some  distinction 
in  having  illness  in  the  house. 

But  even  such  an  event  as  measles  was  thrown  into 
the  shade  by  the  fact  that  Elizabeth  had  called  to  see 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  199 

Mrs.  Catchpole,  to  say  that  a  place  had  fallen  vacant 
at  the  last  moment  in  a  party  of  children  who  were  going 
off  next  morning  into  the  country  for  a  fortnight's  holiday. 
They  were  late  this  year,  she  said,  but  special  permission 
had  been  given. 

Mrs.  Catchpole  was  amiable  enough  to  consent  to 
this  plan.  Elizabeth  turned  to  go,  but  paused  on  the 
threshold. 

"Of  course  there  is  nothing  infectious  in  the  house 
Mrs.  Catchpole?  I  generally  have  to  get  a  doctor's 
certificate,  but  as  there  is  so  little  time,  you  must  give 
me  your  word." 

"Not  such  a  thing  in  the  'ouse,  miss,"  replied  Mrs. 
Catchpole.  "Biby  'ere's  got  a  bit  of  a  cold,  but  that's 
the  only  thing  as  I  knows  of  in  the  'ouse." 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  ready,  Billy  quite  for 
got  Louisa's  measles,  and  when  he  went  to  bed  that 
night  his  conscience  reproached  him. 

"Sal,"  he  said,  "I  don't  fink  it's  fair  of  me  to  go  awiy 
an'  leave  the  kid." 

"She'll  be  all  right,"  said  Sally.  "Why,  she's  much 
better  a'ready." 

"I'll  bring  'er  back  all  sorts  of  fings,"  he  muttered, 
as  he  fell  asleep. 

Next  morning  he  was  up  at  six,  bathed  himself  in 
the  bucket,  brushed  his  clothes,  and  made  Sally's  boots 
— which  she  had  generously  lent  him  for  the  occasion — 
shine  as  they  had  never  shone  before.  His  mind  was  in 
a  bewildering  state  of  happiness. 

While  Mrs.  Catchpole  put  the  finishing  touches  to 
his  toilet,  Sally  sat  by  the  fire  in  her  shift,  nursing  Louisa, 
and  giving  Billy  instructions  as  to  the  care  of  her  boots. 

"Now  mind  ycr  don't  spile  them,  an'  be  sure  an' 
tike  'em  orf  if  yer  goes  on  the  grass." 

"  Yaas,  an'  I  won't  iver  go  fishing  in  them," 


200  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Yer'd  better  not.     Wy,  thct'd  spile  'cm  et  onst." 

Mrs.  Catchpole  was  trying  to  fasten  a  paper  collar 
round  his  neck  while  he  kept  twisting  his  head  that  he 
might  smile  at  Louisa.  But  Louisa  was  peevish,  and 
refused  to  say  good-bye,  and  even  cried  when  he  per 
sisted  in  kissing  her.  Mrs.  Catchpole  remembered 
when  he  had  gone  that  she  had  forgotten  to  warn  him  not 
to  mention  measles. 

There  was  a  long  interval  to  wait  after  his  toilet  was 
complete,  but  Billy  walked  off  his  excitement  up  and  down 
the  broad  thoroughfare,  where  he  passed  many  of  his 
friends,  but  was  too  full  of  importance  even  to  stop  and 
"pass  the  toime  of  diy." 

The  train  was  to  go  at  eleven,  but  the  children  were 
to  meet  at  ten,  in  order  to  walk  together  to  the  station, 
and  as  Billy  turned  the  corner  of  Marshom  Street,  on  his 
way  to  the  school-house,  where  they  were  to  gather,  he 
saw  the  electric  brougham  glide  up  to  the  door.  He 
was  too  busy  with  his  prospects  to  think  of  stopping, 
although  at  any  other  time  the  "moto"  had  a  strong 
fascination  for  him. 

Katherine  was  rarely  out  so  early,  but  she  had  resolved 
to  see  Elizabeth  again,  for  the  sight  of  her  white  face 
had  tormented  her,  and  she  was  very  anxious  to  try  and 
be  of  some  comfort  to  her.  She  felt  almost  unnaturally 
good  when  she  got  up  half  an  hour  earlier,  and  ate  a  very 
hasty  breakfast  in  order  to  get  to  Marshom  Street  and 
return  before  Eric  came  to  luncheon. 

Her  self-complacence  was,  however,  somewhat  damped 
when  she  found  Elizabeth  still  strange  and  distant,  and 
it  seemed  as  though  no  endearments  would  break  down 
the  barrier  which  had  been  so  suddenly  built  up  between 
them. 

"Does  she  think  I  neglected  her?"  thought  Katherine, 
and  she  began  elaborately  giving  Elizabeth  all  sorts  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  201 

reasons  why  so  long  an  interval  had  elapsed  between 
her  visits. 

"I  did  not  expect  you,"  said  Elizabeth,  "don't  trouble 
to  tell  me.  I  was  not  disappointed,  because  I  never 
thought  you  would  come." 

Katherine  felt  impatient.  Why  should  she  take  the 
trouble  to  get  up  so  early  and  come  right  across  London 
to  sympathize  with  Elizabeth,  and  then  be  snubbed  and 
snapped  at  in  this  way  ?  But  she  felt  so  strong  a  belief 
in  her  powers  to  win  that  she  was  not  easily  baffled,  but 
redoubled  her  endeavors  to  recapture  Elizabeth,  though 
without  any  seeming  success. 

Presently  Martha  opened  the  door,  and  in  came  Father 
Martin.  Elizabeth  introduced  him,  but  he  did  not  catch 
her  name.  He  bowed  and  began  asking  her  if  she  was 
familiar  with  that  part  of  London. 

She  talked  enthusiastically  of  Elizabeth  and  her  work, 
and  of  the  admiration  she  had  for  all  who  lived  in  "these 
horrible  streets." 

He  smiled  one  of  his  slow  smiles,  and  looked  at  her 
with  his  kind  eyes. 

"We  are  not  to  be  pitied,"  he  said;  "we  have  our 
compensations,  haven't  we,  Elizabeth?" 

"Oh,  of  course  you  must  feel  all  the  good  you  are 
doing,"  she  answered  quickly.  "I  know  that  must  make 
you  happy,  but  the  misery  and  dirt  and  smells  would  kill  me." 

"Oh  no,  they  wouldn't;  you  would  get  used  to  them," 
he  said.  "What  you  never  get  used  to,  is  the  joy  of 
being  loved  by  these  dear  folk.  That's  a  thing  no  one 
ever  tires  of;  it  makes  up  for  everything.  You  think 
so,  don't  you?"  he  said,  turning  to  Elizabeth.  She  did 
not  answer. 

Katherine  colored. 

"Yes,  I  can  understand  no  one  would  tire  of  that," 
she  said. 


202  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

There  was  a  pause.  The  sun  had  come  out  and 
shone  into  the  little  room,  lighting  up  the  maroon  paper 
with  pale  patches  of  light.  The  court  was  more  silent 
than  usual,  and  Katherine  began  to  think  of  going. 
She  certainly  had  had  no  success  with  Elizabeth,  but 
she  liked  this  kind  old  man. 

Suddenly  the  air  was  filled  with  a  hoarse  cry,  and 
the  sound  of  hurrying  feet. 

"Full  account  of  the  ingigement  at  the  Vaal  River! 
List  of  the  killed  and  wounded!"  and  then  a  little  fainter 
came  the  words  from  a  greater  distance,  "Full  account  of 
the " 

Father  Martin  went  to  the  door,  and  called  the  boy 
back,  and  brought  in  the  pink  paper,  and  looking  down 
the  long  list,  he  began  slowly  reading  aloud : 

"Killed,  the  Hon.  C.  Grover,  Major  Hollowell,  Captain 
Sir  John  Cliffe,  Lieutenant  -  '  but  Katherine  had 
seized  the  paper  from  his  hand. 

"Where,  where?  Let  me  see.  It  isn't  true — it  can't 
be!  Let  me  see!  Oh,  my  God!  My  God!"  As  her 
eye  caught  the  words  she  sank  down  beside  the  table 
with  a  long  wailing  cry. 

The  old  priest  bent  his  head  and  clasped  his  hands. 
There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Elizabeth  knelt  beside 
her  and  put  her  arms  round  her,  and  whispered  some 
thing  to  Father  Martin. 

Katherine  laid  her  head  on  Elizabeth's  shoulder  like 
a  sick  child,  and  let  her  lead  her  to  the  armchair.  She 
seemed  dazed — unable  to  hear  or  see.  She  did  not  cry, 
but  her  face  was  set  and  white. 

"Killed!  Jack  killed?"  she  said,  and  looked  up 
with  wide-open,  startled  eyes. 

Father  Martin  knelt  down  beside  her.  He  was  praying 
in  a  low  voice.  Then  he  turned  to  Elizabeth,  and 
said: 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  203 

"Go  home  with  her."  He  stooped  and  took  her 
hand ;  it  lay  limp  in  his. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  but 
I  am  a  priest,  and  my  mission  is  to  help  men  and  women 
in  all  times  of  sorrow.  If  I  can  be  of  comfort  to  you, 
may  I  come  to  you  at  any  time?  God  bless  you  and 
strengthen  you,  and  help  you  to  understand  that  there  is 
no  death,  it  is  only  life  which  has  moved  on  a  little  faster, 
for  a  while,  than  we  can  travel." 

He  spoke  with  the  conviction  of  one  who  knows,  and 
Katherine  listened  like  a  child  learning  a  new  lesson. 

Then  he  was  gone.  She  got  up  from  her  chair;  she 
was  deadly  white,  but  she  stood  very  straight,  and  her 
voice  was  calm. 

"Elizabeth,  I  must  go." 

"The  telephone,  miss,"  said  Martha,  as  she  put  her 
head  into  the  room,  as  the  imperious  bell  rang  in  the 
passage.  Elizabeth  reluctantly  went  out.  The  door 
stood  open,  and  Katherine  heard  her  say  in  answer  to 
the  inaudible  question: 

"Lady  Cliffe  is  here;  she  is  coming  now." 

Katherine  went  into  the  passage  and  stood  beside 
her.  She  took  the  instrument  from  Elizabeth's  hand 
and  listened. 

"It  is  my  mother,"  she  said. 

"Get  her  to  come  soon.  Don't  tell  her,  but  I  have 
bad  news." 

Lady  Hornden  did  not  know  the  listener  had  changed. 

"I  know  it,"  answered  Katherine,  "Jack's  dead," 
and  she  laid  the  receiver  down. 

"Jack's  dead!  Jack's  dead!"  That  was  what  the 
throb  of  the  electric  motor  said  to  her,  "Jack's  dead!" 
She  heard  it  above  the  grinding  traffic. 

The  vivid  remembrance  of  his  strong,  straight  figure 
filled  her  mind.  Where  was  he  now?  Under  the  green 


204  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

veldt.  How  did  he  die?  Did  he  suffer?  Did  he  think 
of  her?  Other  memories  crowded  in,  but  she  thrust 
them  out.  The  thought  of  Eric  seemed  far  away;  the 
last  months  were  blotted  out — gone.  Only  Jack  filled 
her  thoughts. 

Elizabeth  put  her  arm  round  her.  It  was  a  comfort 
to  feel  some  human  care  was  near  her.  She  did  not 
speak;  she  only  sat  looking  dumbly  out  until  they  reached 
Hill  Street. 

"Come  again  soon,"  she  said,  as  she  kissed  Elizabeth. 

"I  am  so,  so  sorry  for  you.  If  I  can  be  any  help  I 
will  come,"  she  answered,  "but  it  is  worse  for  me  than 
for  you,  if  you  only  knew." 

"What  a  hatefully  selfish  thing  to  have  said,"  thought 
Elizabeth,  as  she  saw  Katherine  totter  into  the  house 
to  meet  Lady  Hornden,  \vho  clasped  her  in  her  arms. 
Then  she  turned  away,  and  took  the  underground  back 
to  East  London,  but  all  the  way  she  felt  strong  remorse 
for  the  wretched  egotism  of  her  last  words,  and  hoped 
Katherine  had  not  heard  them. 

Elizabeth  returned  to  Marshom  Street  with  despair 
in  her  heart.  She  imagined  that  her  trouble  mainly 
arose  from  the  fact  that  she  had  behaved  in  a  crisis  with 
what  she  called  despicable  \veakness,  but  the  certainty 
that  Jack's  death  would  mean  the  final  destruction  to 
her  hope,  was  really  at  the  bottom  of  her  misery. 

She  went  into  her  little  bedroom  to  take  off  her  hat, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  side  of  her  bed.  The  events 
of  the  last  few  hours  passed  before  her.  The  intense 
pity  that  she  had  felt  for  Katherine  began  to  give  way 
to  a  feeling  of  resentment.  It  was  certainly  a  shock, 
but  it  only  meant  that  she  would  be  free  to  marry  the 
man  with  whom  she  had  been  flirting  for  weeks.  The 
man  who  lay  dead  had  really  been  displaced  long  ago, 
and  after  all  the  uncertainty,  after  all  the  hopes  and  the 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  205 

fears,  after  all — Eric  would  marry  this  woman.  Then 
she  looked  up,  and  saw  the  crucifix  hanging  on  the  bare 
wall  above  her  bed.  I  have  not  even  religion  left,  she 
thought,  for  I  have  hatred  in  my  heart.  If  I  knew  what 
love  really  is,  I  suppose  I  should  be  glad  that  he  will  be 
happy.  But  I  can't,  I  can't,  I  am  so  bad.  And  she 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  and  tried  to  pray. 

Presently   she   heard    Martha's    voice   calling   to   her. 

"Miss  Elizabeth,  please  to  come  down,  you  are  wanted. 
Something's  'appened  while  you  was  out.  They  want 
you  quick." 

"It's  only  a  fight,"  she  thought,  as  she  got  up  from 
her  knees  and  put  on  her  hat.  "Surely  I  might  be 
spared  more  horrible  times!  I  am  coming,"  she  called. 
"Tell  them  I  am  coming." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

KATHERINE  had  been  put  to  bed.  In  moments  of  great 
sorrow,  when  action  is  of  no  use,  it  is  probably  the  most 
comforting  place,  as  one  can  feign  sleep  which  stills  talk, 
and  talk  at  such  times  is  the  one  intolerable  thing. 

Lady  Hornden  rustled  in  and  out  on  tip-toe,  bringing 
in  port  wine  and  jelly,  food  which  is  generally  believed 
to  be  appropriate  in  times  of  affliction.  Then  she  would 
clasp  Katherine  in  her  arms,  and  tell  her  that  life  still 
held  much  happiness,  and  that  her  beautiful  darling 
would  get  over  it.  It  was  the  shock  that  was  so  cruel. 

She  spoke  in  loud  whispers,  came  back  into  the  room 
after  she  had  left  it  to  draw  blinds  down,  or  to  put  wood 
on  the  fire,  for  Katherine  had  shivered  with  the  cold  that 
comes  from  desolation.  Then  she  would  turn  to  the  bed 
again  to  see  if  she  slept,  but  she  lay  still  and  white,  with 
wide-opened  eyes  which  looked  at  nothing. 

"If  she  would  only  cry,"  she  said  to  the  maid.  "It 
is  so  unnatural;  I  have  cried  without  ceasing  ever  since 
I  heard  it." 

By-and-by  the  servant  came  to  tell  her  Mr.  Erring- 
ton  was  m  the  drawing-room.  She  hesitated  what 
she  had  better  do,  whether  she  would  go  down  to  him 
or  send  him  a  message,  but  finally  settled  to  see  him. 
She  felt  a  little  nervous,  went  to  the  glass  and  arranged 
her  hair,  and  powdered  her  face.  It  was  an  awkward 
interview  she  thought;  but  it's  no  use  arranging  what 
to  say,  it's  better  to  trust  to  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

As  she  opened  the  drawing-room  door  she  saw  at 
once  by  the  startled  look  on  Eric's  face  that  he  had  not 

206 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  207 

heard  the  news,  and  could  not  understand  her  presence 
there.  She  came  across  the  room  with  her  hand  stretched 
out,  held  his  for  a  moment,  then  sank  into  a  chair  and 
covered  her  face. 

"I  see  you  have  not  heard,"  she  whispered. 

"Heard  what?    Is  Lady  Cliffe  ill?    Heard  what?" 

"The  tragic  news,"  she  said.  "We  are  overwhelmed. 
Read  that,"  and  she  put  the  telegram  into  his  hand. 
He  went  to  the  window.  There  was  a  pause. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  said  under  his  breath.  The  words 
swam  before  his  eyes.  Katherine  free  ?  Was  it  possible  ? 
Was  he  after  all  to  have  this  unspeakable  luck —  -  Then 
the  remembrance  of  Jack  came  to  him,  the  sound  of  his 
voice  as  he  held  him  when  he  was  wounded  on  the  veldt, 
the  strong  figure,  so  full  of  exuberant  vitality,  and  with 
it  the  remembrance  of  the  dead  he  had  seen  lying  with 
upturned  faces  came  before  him;  the  still,  stiff  figures, 
with  all  individuality  gone.  Then  the  thought  of  Kath 
erine  came  back  to  him,  the  slender  figure,  the  beautiful 
face.  How  did  she  feel?  Did  her  love  for  him  over 
master  at  this  moment  all  other  feeling?  He  turned 
to  Lady  Hornden,  whose  head  was  bowed,  although 
he  knew  she  had  been  watching  him  until  the  moment 
he  looked  round  at  her. 

"This  is  awful,"  he  said,  "Poor  old  boy!  The  best 
man  and  the  best  soldier  I  have  ever  known.  How  is 
Lady  Cliffe  ?  When  did  she  hear  it  ?  " 

"She  saw  it  in  the  paper.  Poor  darling!  She  is 
utterly  overwhelmed,  she  hardly  speaks,  and  is  as  white 
as  a  lily-blossom.  Of  course,  I  am  utterly  heartbroken. 
The  sight  of  her  grief  overwhelms  me.  He  was  the 
best  husband,  and  the  best  son,"  and  she  buried  her 
head  in  the  soft  cushion  and  cried. 

Eric  felt  uncomfortable.  He  was  sure  Katherine 
would  wish  to  see  him,  was  longing  for  his  comfort, 


208  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

and  yet  he  did  not  know  how  to  convey  this  to  Lady 
Hornden. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  Lady  Cliffe?"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lady  Hornden.  "I  have  asked 
my  brother  to  go  to  the  War  Office  to  hear  particulars, 
and  see  about  things.  No,  I  don't  think  there  is  anything." 

"Will  you  tell  Lady  Cliffe  I  am  ready  to  do  her  bidding, 
if  she  would  care  for  me  to  come — if  she  asks  for  me?" 

"She  has  not  mentioned  you,"  said  Lady  Hornden, 
secretly  delighted  to  be  able  to  say  it.  "If  she  does, 
I  will  tell  her." 

Eric  felt  puzzled.  "  She  is  probably  dazed,"  he  thought. 
"I  will  go  home  and  write  to  her.  She  will  want  me 
when  she  has  recovered  from  the  shock."  He  felt  a 
sense  of  proprietorship  which  made  conventionalities 
seem  intolerable.  He  wanted  to  break  them  down  as 
soon  as  possible,  to  assert  the  supremacy  which  he  felt 
was  his  right.  Why  should  anyone  stand  between  him 
and  Katherine?  With  difficulty  he  mastered  his  re 
sentment,  and  replied:  "Oh,  of  course  she  can  think 
of  nothing  yet,  but  tell  her  I  am  ready  at  any  time  to  do 
anything  for  her."  Then  he  questioned  her  as  to  how 
Katherine  had  heard  the  news. 

"She  was  at  some  charitable  place  in  the  East  End," 
said  Lady  Hornden.  "I  don't  quite  know  what.  A 
lady  answered  me  through  the  telephone." 

The  color  came  into  Eric's  face.  So  she  heard  the 
news  of  Jack's  death  at  Elizabeth's!  How  extraordinary 
life  is.  He  wondered  what  had  passed  between  the 
two  women;  how  Elizabeth  had  behaved;  what  Kath 
erine  had  said? 

He  listened  to  Lady  Hornden's  explanation  of  her 
own  feelings  after  the  telegram;  her  fears  of  being  too 
late;  how  she  meant  to  break  it  to  Katherine;  her  agony 
at  finding  she  already  knew,  but  how  her  love  for  Jack, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  209 

and  her  own  great  grief,  had  to  be  smothered  on  account 
of  Katherine,  to  whom  she  was  now  everything.  Then 
his  mind  reverted  to  the  strange  coincidence  at  Marshom 
Street. 

"How  extraordinary  life  is!"  he  said  again,  as  he 
shut  the  front  door. 

Katherine  did  not  recover  strength.  Doctors  came 
and  went.  They  said  Lady  Cliffe's  nervous  system 
had  undergone  a  severe  shock,  and  prescribed  a  rest 
cure.  For  days  Katherine  lay  in  bed  listless  and  silent. 
She  asked  for  no  one,  and  she  cared  for  nothing.  Through 
the  waking  hours,  when  her  mind  turned  to  the  memories 
of  the  past  months,  she  tried  to  slam  the  door  on  the 
recollection,  and  to  shut  it  out  as  completely  as  she  had 
excluded  all  remembrance  of  Jack  during  those  days 
with  Eric,  but  she  found  it  so  difficult  that  she  set  to  work 
to  make  herself  believe  that  she  had  never  felt  anything 
more  for  him  than  pity  and  friendship. 

When  the  remembrance  of  his  words  and  his  look 
returned  to  her,  she  told  herself  that  she  had  renounced 
him  forever.  Jack  seemed  to  her  more  present  than 
when  he  was  really  living.  She  had  a  strong  feeling 
that  now  he  knew  all  she  was  feeling  and  doing,  and 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  disappoint  him.  The  belief 
she  had  in  his  goodness  made  her  detest  the  thought 
that  she  had  been  treacherous  or  unfaithful,  and  Eric, 
judged  by  Jack's  standard,  lost  considerably  in  her 
estimation. 

Her  future  seemed  to  her  clear.  She  would  spend 
it  in  a  dignified  solitude.  She  was  never  happy  unless 
she  could  place  herself  in  a  position  where  she  could 
fulfil  the  role  which  appealed  to  her  at  the  time.  With 
Eric  the  tie  had  been  one  of  aesthetic  cultured  intimacy — 
she  would  not  call  it  love.  Now  life  had  changed.  She 
would  go  away  and  live  among  Jack's  tenants,  a  solitary 
14 


210  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

and  pathetic  figure,  bringing  happiness  to  others,  though 
life  held  no  more  happiness  for  her.  When  once  she 
had  thus  framed  herself,  she  began,  almost  unconsciously, 
filling  in  details — she  would  dress  always  in  black,  close- 
fitting,  with  long  clinging  lines. 

She  must  have  one  interview  with  Eric  and  tell  him 
that  to  expiate  the  past  they  must  part  forever.  Jack 
would  know  that  she  had  done  this  for  him.  She  felt 
sure  that,  unseen,  he  would  be  present  at  the  parting. 
A  myth  was  gradually  forming  round  the  memory  of  the 
pleasant  matter-of-fact  Englishman,  with  the  true  heart 
and  guileless  nature,  and  he  was  taking  on  in  her  memory 
complicated  forms  and  subtle  qualities  which  he  had 
never  possessed. 

Lady  Hornden  was  at  her  wits'  end;  she  could  not 
understand  the  situation.  If  Katherine  would  only 
talk,  would  only  give  her  some  idea  of  what  she  intended 
to  do.  She  was  puzzled  because  she  did  not  ask  for 
Eric.  In  one  way  she  was  of  course  glad,  but  on  the 
other  hand,  when  she  saw  her  so  wan  and  thin  and  life 
less,  she  would  almost  rather  have  heard  her  ask  for  him 
and  desire  his  presence,  than  lie  there  day  after  day, 
apparently  wanting  nothing  on  earth. 

"It  is  really  maddening  to  me  as  a  mother,"  she  ex 
claimed  to  Mr.  Farningham,  "to  feel  so  absolutely  help 
less.  To  show  you  how  bad  things  are,  I  can't  interest 
her,  even  in  her  mourning.  I  got  Vendre  to  come  from 
Paris  with  the  most  divine  black  tea-gowns,  and  she 
would  not  look  at  them,  and  said  when  she  was  better 
she  was  going  to  Freeder,  who  makes  all  those  trapsey 
high-art  clothes.  It's  despairing!"  And  she  clasped 
her  hands.  "I  told  her  the  other  day  that  I  was  sure 
it  would  do  her  good  if  I  asked  a  few  people  to  dinner, 
really  intimate  friends  who  would  understand  if  she 
laughed  a  little,  and  not  be  ill-natured,  but  she  only 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  211 

seemed  vexed,  and  I  dropped  the  subject.  It's  wearing 
me  out." 

"It's  most  trying,"  said  Mr.  Farningham  soothingly, 
"but  dear  Lady  Cliffe  never  does  anything  ordinary 
or  expected.  Everybody  was  saying  that  of  course 
poor  Sir  John's  death  would  not  come  as  a  great  grief, 
but  they  were  wrong,  for  really  she  is  much  more  cut 
up  than  Lady  Burley,  who  positively  worshipped  her 
husband." 

"You  must  be  a  fool,  and  so  must  everybody  who 
doesn't  see  that  Katherine  adored  Jack."  Lady  Horn- 
den  was  really  annoyed.  "Lady  Burley,"  she  said, 
"showed  her  grief  in  a  sort  of  middle-class  meowling 
way  all  the  time  he  was  away,  which  would  have  been 
impossible  to  Katherine;  but  now  I  should  like  to  know 
if  the  ill-natured  idiots  are  not  satisfied  that  Katherine 
is  really  broken-hearted." 

"They  ought  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Farningham,  feeling 
he  had  made  a  faux  pas.  "I  told  the  Duchess  of  Lowest- 
oft  the  other  day  that  Lady  Cliffe  had  not  seen  Errington, 
and  that  she  lay  dangerously  ill  and  would  see  no  one." 

"What  did  she  say?"  said  Lady  Hornden,  a  little 
mollified. 

"Oh,  she  said  she  supposed  she  would  recover  in 
time.  She  is  very  prosaic,  you  know,  and  can  never 
understand  anything  thrilling."  He  did  not  add  that 
he  and  the  duchess  had  arranged  just  how  long  a  time 
would  elapse  before  Katherine  married  again,  and  that 
he  had  added  that  he  thought  it  very  clever  of  Katherine 
to  keep  Eric  at  a  distance  and  not  to  fall  at  his  feet  like 
a  ripe  plum. 

During  the  third  week  after  the  news  of  Jack's  death, 
a  letter  came  to  Katherine,  written  two  days  before 
he  was  killed.  She  held  the  envelope  with  the  well- 
known  writing  in  her  hand. 


212  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"May  I  be  alone,  please?"  she  said  to  her  mother, 
who  at  once  burst  into  tears,  and  said  it  was  not  natural. 

She  would  surely  want  to  have  read  it,  she  thought, 
leaning  oh  her  mother's  breast,  but  Katherine  was  silent, 
and  she  felt  she  had  no  choice  but  to  fulfil  her  wish. 

The  letter  lay  before  her,  the  last  she  would  ever 
get.  With  a  pinching  feeling  at  her  heart  she  remem 
bered  that  sometimes  lately  when  they  had  come,  she 
had  gone  out  before  opening  them,  and  left  them  on  the 
hall  table.  She  took  up  the  blue  envelope  and  kissed 
it. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  she  said,  as  she  stroked  it  softly,  "I  do 
love  you;  you  believe  it,  don't  you?"  But  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  was  the  only  answering  sound.  Then  her 
thin  white  hands  tore  open  the  cover,  and  she  took  the 
letter  out  and  read  it. 

"Mv  DARLING, — 

"I  must  write  you  a  very  short  letter,  as  I  am  pushed 
for  time.  We  have  just  come  out  of  a  little  fight,  not 
interesting,  and  hardly  to  be  called  a  fight,  more  like  a  game 
of  long  bowls  with  guns.  We  had  very  few  casualties. 
I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  be  next  to  a  man  fairly 
squashed  by  a  shell.  He  was  sitting  on  a  wagon,  poor 
dog!  and  the  shell  landed  full  in  his  chest.  They  took 
him  away  in  a  sack.  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you,  only, 
I  suppose,  because  the  horrid  sight  is  still  so  vivid.  I 
am  all  right.  I  have  ridden  150  miles  in  six  days,  and 
am  as  fit  as  a  fiddle. 

"I  am  sending  you  this  early,  as,  thank  goodness,  we 
are  on  the  move  again.  The  Guards  went  to-day,  look 
ing  splendid,  and  I  go  to-morrow  at  4  A.M.  If  only  the 
Boers  will  stand  anywhere,  there  will  be  an  end  of  it, 
but  I  am  afraid  we  shan't  have  any  more  big  battles, 
and  if  so  we  shall  go  dragging  on.  As  the  men  passed 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  213 

to-day  I  heard  a  Tommy  say,  'we  shall  all  be  dead  soon.' 
It's  true  of  thousands,  but  the  rest  will  do  the  job  O.K. 
"Take  care  of  your  dear  self,  and  don't  forget  your 

"Loving  old 

"  JACK. 

"P.S. — Got  the  cigarettes  all  right  and  the  chocolate 
and  soap,  and  blessed  you  a  thousand  times." 

The  postscript  went  home  like  a  knife.  Jack's  sister 
had  sent  these  things.  She  had  meant  to  do  it,  but  had 
put  off  going  to  the  shops.  The  letter  seemed  so  living. 
Was  it  possible  that  since  he  had  written  it,  his  hand 
was  stiff  and  cold.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  picture 
him  dead.  She  had  done  so  many  times  before,  but  the 
remembrance  of  his  voice  or  his  laugh  was  much  more 
present. 

She  put  the  thin  blue  paper  down  again  and  lay  back. 
She  could  not  cry,  only  the  dull  heartache  was  physical 
pain,  and  she  pressed  both  her  hands  to  her  side,  and 
felt  faint  and  giddy. 

Lady  Hornden  soon  rustled  into  the  room  again  with 
the  nurse,  bringing  beef-tea  and  toast,  and  she  was  almost 
thankful  for  the  break  in  the  unending  sadness  of  her 
thoughts. 

At  length  Katherine  recovered  sufficiently  to  leave 
her  bed  and  to  go  downstairs.  With  a  return  to  daily 
life,  she  knew  that  she  must  see  Eric  and  tell  him  how 
things  must  stand  between  them  in  the  future. 

He  had  written  to  her  several  times,  very  tender  and 
considerate  letters.  She  had  only  scribbled  her  thanks 
in  pencil,  and  had  not  attempted  to  answer  them.  He 
looked  at  the  shaky  handwriting  with  mixed  feelings, 
pity  for  the  poor  prostrate  little  body,  and  some  impatience 
with  the  weakness  that  could  not  shake  off  the  physical 


214  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

effects  of  a  shock,  which  could  have  no  deep  mental 
meaning. 

At  last  he  heard,  on  his  daily  enquiries  at  the  house, 
that  she  was  able  to  come  downstairs,  and  he  knew 
that  the  hour  of  their  meeting  would  not  be  long  delayed. 
It  was  therefore  no  surprise  to  him  to  get  a  telegram 
asking  him  to  call  next  day  at  five  o'clock. 

Katherine  constantly  corresponded  by  telegram.  It 
saved  trouble,  and  on  this  occasion  she  did  so,  because 
it  avoided  definite  expressions.  She  spent  the  next 
morning  in  mentally  rehearsing  the  scene  between  herself 
and  Eric.  She  would  not  prolong  it,  she  thought,  but 
briefly  tell  him  her  determination  as  regarded  the  future. 
She  would  dwell  as  little  as  possible  on  anything  that  had 
happened  in  the  past.  It  was  the  great  moment  of  her 
expiation,  she  felt,  and  she  was  preparing  for  the  sacrifice, 
and  yet  so  great  had  been  the  revulsion  caused  by  the 
news  of  Jack's  death,  that  she  knew  in  her  own  soul  that, 
at  that  moment,  it  was  no  sacrifice. 

For  the  first  time  for  weeks  she  took  an  almost  feverish 
interest  in  her  dress,  arranged  her  hair  with  care,  and 
went  downstairs  looking  pale  and  transparent,  but  with 
an  ethereal  beauty  which  gave  her  added  charm. 

She  stood  by  the  window  waiting  for  Eric  to  come. 
The  moments  seemed  days.  What  could  she  say  to 
him?  He  would  take  so  much  for  granted. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Errington  was  announced. 
She  turned  as  he  came  in,  and  held  out  her  hands,  a 
slender  figure  in  her  long  black  drapery,  with  sleeves 
which  reached  barely  to  the  elbow,  showing  her  arms 
thin  and  white.  Her  face  w^ore  an  expression  which 
Eric  at  once  recognized  as  foreign  to  his  remembrance 
of  her. 

"Are  you  better?"  he  said,  eagerly  seizing  her  hand 
and  kissing  it,  and  holding  it  between  both  his 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  215 

own.  "I  have  been  mad  with  anxiety.  Are  you  really 
stronger?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Katherine  in  a  voice  so  low  it  was 
almost  a  whisper.  She  felt  as  though  she  was  being 
strangled.  Now  that  he  stood  before  her  and  looked 
at  her  with  his  appealing  eyes,  what  could  she  say  ? 

"Sit  down,"  said  Eric,  with  an  expression  of  com 
mand.  "Don't  stand,  it's  bad  for  you.  Don't  tell 
me  anything,  I  know  it  all;  I  understand  it  all.  Only 
tell  me  about  yourself,  your  health,  your  wishes." 

She  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from  him. 

"Eric,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "I  can't  tell  you  all 
that  has  happened,  but  I  see  and  know  I  ought  never 
to  have  let  you  come  as  you  did.  I  ought  not  to  have 
allowed  your  friendship  to  make  people  think  I  did 
not  care  for  Jack,  because  I  did  really."  The  last  words 
were  said  very  feebly,  she  hardly  knew  how  to  get  them 
out.  Eric  was  watching  her. 

At  first  he  felt  an  almost  uncontrollable  impatience. 
Then  as  he  saw  her  so  frail  a  thing,  he  knew  this  could 
only  be  a  phase  that  would  pass,  if  he  played  carefully. 
He  would  not  draw  the  line  to  snapping  point,  but  let 
her  expend  this  mood,  and  then  she  would  be  his. 

"Of  course  no  one  really  thought  that,"  said  Eric. 
The  words  were  a  great  effort.  "Everybody  knew 
you  were  sorry  for  me,  because  I  was  lonely  and  ill. 
Dear  old  Jack  himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  under 
stand." 

Katherine  caught  at  his  words  with  new  hope. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you're  right;  he  would,  wouldn't 
he?"  and  the  situation  seemed  to  adjust  itself  in  a  way 
it  had  not  done  before.  Then  she  began  to  explain 
her  plans,  speaking  very  fast,  and  playing  nervously 
with  her  chain. 

"Well,  that  seems  wise,"  said  Eric,  when  she  paused. 


216  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"You  will  go  into  the  country,  as  you  say.  I  believe 
that  is  probably  best.  After  all,  solitude  teaches  us 
many  lessons  we  can't  learn  otherwise." 

Katherine  looked  up  startled.  Was  he  prepared 
to  take  her  great  renunciation  so  lightly?  The  scene 
somehow  was  not  what  she  had  expected.  She  wondered 
vaguely  why  she  did  not  find  it  a  relief,  but  somehow 
she  did  not. 

"Jack's  home  will  be  the  best  place,"  he  continued. 
"I  think  I  understand  all  you  feel,  only  remember,  when 
you  want  me,  I  am  on  sentry  duty  out  in  the  world,  watch 
ing  to  do  your  bidding." 

"He  certainly  has  wonderful  qualities,"  said  Kath 
erine  when  he  was  gone.  "So  much  intuition  and  tender 
ness.  He  never  needs  one  to  put  dots  on  the  i's  and  to 
cross  the  t's;  he  understands,  and  fills  in  all  the  blanks." 

"Poor  little  soul!"  said  Eric,  as  he  sat  looking  out 
into  the  street  from  the  windows  of  his  club.  "She 
is  in  a  very  exaltee  state,  but  she  will  come  back  to  the 
every-day  world;  only  I  must  have  patience;  and  that's 
the  very  devil." 

After  her  interview  with  Eric,  Katherine  sent  a  note 
to  Elizabeth,  asking  her  to  come  and  see  her,  and,  some 
what  against  the  grain,  Elizabeth  obeyed  the  summons. 
She  was  shown  into  Lady  Cliffe's  long  low  room  lined 
with  oak.  A  fire  burned  in  the  hearth  between  beautiful 
Italian  dogs,  and  above  it,  let  into  the  woodwork  of  the 
chimney-piece,  was  a  portrait  by  Van  Dyck  of  a  woman 
in  white  satin  and  fur.  Some  low  bookshelves  ran  along 
the  wall  below  the  square  oak  panelling,  and  a  green 
damask  sofa  was  wheeled  near  the  fire,  and  by  its  side 
stood  a  table  with  hot-house  flowers  in  silver  cups,  among 
the  many  bibelots  and  ornaments. 

Katherine  came  in  almost  directly,  and  took  Elizabeth's 
hand  and  kissed  her,  and  both  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  217 

"Oh,  Saint  Clare,"  she  said,  "I  can't  talk  about  it 
all,  but  I'm  going  away  from  London,  and  I  want  your 
advice.  I'm  going  to  live  in  the  country  and  try  to 
help  the  people.  I  shall  be  all  alone  all  the  rest  of  my 
life,  and  I  want  to  try  to  make  somebody  else  happier." 

She  began  explaining  many  schemes.  Elizabeth 
listened.  She  was  half  carried  away  by  Katherine's 
enthusiasm,  and  half  distrusted  the  duration  of  her 
resolves. 

"Michael  would  say,"  she  said,  after  listening  to 
plans  for  almshouses,  and  children's  homes,  and  refuges, 
"that  you  had  better  go  round  your  own  cottages  and 
look  after  the  water  and  the  drains,  and  the  number  of 
rooms,  and  find  out  what  rent  they  pay." 

"Oh,  what  a  dull,  tiresome  person  he  must  be,"  said 
Katherine.  "The  agent  does  that,  doesn't  he?  I 
don't  want  to  become  a  sort  of  sanitary  inspector." 

"  Do  go  down  first  and  see  it  all.  Don't  fix  on  anything 
definite  till  you  get  there,  and  then  you  will  judge  better. 
Mr.  Fane  could  help  you  splendidly,"  said  Elizabeth, 
"and  so  could  Father  Martin." 

"That  dear  man  I  met  that  day?"  said  Katherine. 
"Oh,  I  loved  him.  Do  you  think  he  would?" 

"I  know  he  would,"  she  said. 

Katherine  was  rather  damped  by  Elizabeth's  very 
practical  advice.  She  had  expected  to  find  her  en 
thusiastic  over  the  schemes  she  proposed,  and  she  did 
not  at  all  like  her  very  prosy  view.  Cottages?  Of 
course  they  would  be  all  right,  they  had  no  poetry  or 
charm;  but  long,  low  almshouses,  with  a  beautiful  line 
of  roof,  a  harbor  of  refuge  for  the  old  and  sad,  like  Walker's 
charming  picture — that  was  delightful.  "They  get  into 
grooves,  these  good  people,"  she  thought,  "but  I  fancied 
Elizabeth  had  more  imagination.  I  must  see  Lady 
Augusta,  and  hear  what  she  says." 


218  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

All  the  while  Katherine  was  talking,  Elizabeth 
wondered  what  part  Eric  took  in  all  this.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  ask,  but  Katherine  made  no  allusion 
to  him,  and  Elizabeth  could  not  understand  it,  and  went 
away  completely  mystified. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

% 

BILLY  stood  on  the  platform  among  the  screaming, 
shouting  children,  on  his  best  behavior,  at  the  railway 
station.  He  remained  immovable  where  he  was  told  to 
stand,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  watching  the 
trains  come  and  go.  When  the  older  children  crowded 
into  the  carriage  Billy  waited  till  they  were  all  in,  and 
then  sat  down  quietly  beside  the  master  in  whose  care 
they  were  to  be.  The  young  man  tried  to  talk  to  him, 
but  Billy  was  shy.  He  sat  with  his  arms  folded,  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

At  last  their  station  was  reached,  and  the  whole  party 
rushed  out  in  mad  disorder.  A  wagon  had  been  sent 
to  meet  them,  and  they  clambered  in  over  wheels  and 
sides,  like  a  swarm  of  ants.  Billy  secured  a  seat  on  the 
front  beside  the  master. 

The  wagon  started  and  away  they  went,  rumbling 
through  the  little  town.  It  was  a  quaint  old  town,  little 
more  than  a  village,  with  red-roofed  houses  and  narrow 
streets.  The  sky  was  unclouded  blue,  and  the  whole 
scene  was  full  of  vivid  color  to  Billy's  eyes.  Trees  grew 
in  all  sorts  of  unlikely  places.  Here  a  big  chestnut-tree, 
with  golden  and  pale-green  leaves,  threw  its  shade  over  a 
red  gabled  roof.  There  a  row  of  pollard  elms  stood  in 
the  open  street.  There  were  still  flowers,  Michaelmas 
daisies  and  late-blooming  roses,  in  the  little  patches  of 
garden.  One  rose  he  saw  had  been  pushed  through  the 
railings,  and  nodded  its  head  in  the  street.  The  mild 
air  was  warm,  and  the  smell  of  the  earth,  and  leaves, 

219 


220  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

intoxicated  him.  He  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  gave 
way  to  uproarious  laughter. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  youngster?"  asked 
the  master. 

"Nufink,"  said  Billy;  but  he  changed  his  laugh  to 
a  silent  smile.  It  was  all  that  they  had  told  him  and 
more,  this  wonderful  country.  He  could  see  the  fields 
velvety  green,  the  hedgerows  cool  and  shady.  The 
creak  of  the  wagon  was  music  to  him.  What  would 
Sally  say  if  she  could  see  him  now  ?  Then  he  remembered 
Louisa,  and  the  picture  clouded  over. 

"Our  biby's  gort  measles,"  he  said  sadly,  looking 
into  the  master's  face. 

"What?"  said  the  master. 

Billy  repeated  his  remark  in  a  frightened  voice. 

"Where?  \Vhen?  Why  was  this  not  known  before ?" 
the  master  raved. 

Billy  was  aghast.  He  told  him  all  about  Louisa, 
with  a  growing  fear  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  In 
less  than  two  minutes  he  was  standing  on  the  road  watch 
ing  the  wagon  slowly  creak  up  the  hill  without  him. 

"Come  along,  youngster,"  said  the  master,  "I  must 
send  a  telegram;  you'll  have  to  go  home." 

The  wagon  turned  the  corner.  Billy  silently  watched 
it.  Was  this  to  be  the  end  of  his  dreams?  Was  it  for 
this  he  had  got  up  early  and  bathed  in  the  bucket  ?  There 
was  no  more  joy  in  Sally's  boots,  in  the  new  paper  collar, 
or  the  bright  blue  bow.  There  were  the  fields  before 
his  eyes,  and  hedgerows  and  flowers.  Bears,  he  knew, 
were  waiting  in  the  woods,  and  fish  in  the  river.  The 
sun  shone  gaily  on  the  little  town,  but  the  wagon  had  gone, 
and  Billy's  sorrow  had  almost  stunned  him. 

Mrs.  Catchpole  sat  on  the  bed  fanning  herself  with 
her  apron.  She  had  just  come  back  from  "The  Red 
Lion,"  where  she  had  been  drinking  with  a  neighbor. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  221 

Louisa,  who  was  declared  by  her  mother  to  be  con 
valescent,  sat  on  Sally's  knee  by  the  open  window,  watch 
ing  with  the  vacant  eyes  of  extreme  youth  the  children 
at  play  in  the  court  below. 

"Lord,  ain't  it  'ot?"  said  Mrs.  Catchpole.  "Who'd 
think  as  it  were  October?" 

"Yaas,"  said  Sally  absently.  She  was  thinking  of 
Billy,  and  wondering  how  far  he  would  be  on  his  journey, 
wishing  a  little  enviously  that  she  could  have  gone  too. 

"I'm  as  dry  as  ole  'Any  'eself,"  went  on  Mrs.  Catch- 
pole. 

Sally  did  not  reply.     Mrs.  Catchpole  rose. 

"'Ere,  Sal,  cut  acrorst  ter  'The  Lion,'  an'  bring  me 
a  pint  of  'arf  an'  'arf.  Arst  the  man  ter  stick  the  liabel 
on,  an'  yer  can  git  it." 

Sally  rose  reluctantly,  and  laid  Louisa  on  the  end 
of  the  bed  which  stretched  across  the  window. 

"Waal,  then,  yer  must  see  ter  the  biby  while  I'm 
awiy,"  she  said,  as  she  took  a  can  from  the  table  and 
departed  for  the  beer.  She  walked  leisurely,  for  her 
thoughts  were  still  absorbed  in  the  longing  to  share 
Billy's  outing. 

Sally  had  barely  left  the  room  when  Louisa  began 
to  cry.  It  wras  bad  enough  to  have  measles,  but  to  be 
suddenly  put  down  flat  on  a  bed  out  of  the  nice  fresh 
air,  was  more  than  a  baby  could  bear,  and  she  howled 
loudly. 

Mrs.  Catchpole  was  too  hot  to  be  bothered  with  nursing 
the  child,  so  she  took  the  dirty  pillow  from  the  other  end 
of  the  bed,  and  sat  her  on  it,  on  a  level  with  the  window- 
sill. 

"There,  now,  chuck  that  rar,  and  behive  yerself," 
she  said,  and  seated  herself  once  more  on  the  bed. 

Sally  sauntered  along,  swinging  the  can  by  her  side. 
At  the  end  of  the  court  she  met  Polly,  and  stopped  to 


222  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

speak  to  her.  Polly  was  selling  lemons,  and  too  busy 
to  talk.  Sally  watched  her  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
strolled  into  the  public-house.  Coming  back  she  stopped 
again,  this  time  to  watch  a  fight,  but  the  arrival  of  a 
policeman  put  an  end  to  the  dispute.  She  turned  the 
corner  of  the  court,  and  was  lazily  proceeding  on  her 
homeward  way,  when  a  shrill  scream  of  terror  startled 
her.  She  looked  up  just  in  time  to  see  a  fluttering  bundle 
fall  from  an  open  window,  to  hear  a  sickening  thud  as  it 
struck  the  pavement.  A  moment  later  the  court  was 
crowded  with  people. 

"Tike  it  ter  the  'orspital!"  shouted  one. 

"Go  for  a  copper,"  shouted  another. 

Sally  pushed  her  way  through  the  crowd.  She  knew 
what  it  meant.  That  thud  was  throbbing  in  her  ears. 
She  pushed  roughly  past  the  people.  It  was  her  baby, 
her  very  own ;  no  one  had  a  right  to  touch  it  but  she. 

When  she  reached  the  centre  of  the  crowd  she  saw 
Mrs.  Catchpole  sitting  on  the  pavement,  with  the  still 
body  of  Louisa  on  her  lap. 

It  must  have  been  quite  three  hours  later,  when  the 
excitement  had  died  away,  that  Sally,  sitting  on  the 
bed  in  the  empty  room,  felt  an  odd  stiffness  in  her  hand 
— she  looked  down,  the  can  of  beer  was  still  clutched  in 
her  fingers. 

They  had  taken  the  shattered  little  body  away.  Mrs. 
Catchpole  was  next  door  with  Mrs.  Green,  being  con 
soled  with  repeated  half-pints.  Outside  the  sun  still 
shone  with  the  pale  gleam  of  an  autumn  evening.  The 
children  had  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  accident  and 
had  gone  back  to  their  games.  Sally  looked  at  them 
with  a  far-away  feeling  of  unreality.  She  saw  a  small 
boy  come  slouching  up  the  court,  unnoticed  by  the  other 
children.  She  thought  she  knew  him,  there  was  some 
thing  familiar  about  the  blue  bow  at  his  neck.  He  turned 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  223 

in  at  the  street  door.  She  drew  back  into  the  room  and 
looked  round  in  a  quick,  frightened  way.  He  was 
coming  upstairs. 

"Billy,  it  warn't  my  blime,"  she  said  with  a  little 
whine,  as  the  door  opened  and  he  came  in. 

Elizabeth  found  them  huddled  together  on  the  bed. 
Neither  cried,  but  there  was  a  look  in  their  faces  which 
told  a  sorrow  deeper  than  tears. 

She  sat  down  between  them  and  put  her  arm  round 
each.  She  tried  to  tell  them  of  the  angel  that  had  taken 
Louisa  in  kind,  strong  arms  away  above  the  grimy 
streets  and  smoky  chimneys. 

"I  expect  it's  like  the  country,"  said  Billy,  with  a  dry 
sob. 

The  darkness  gathered,  but  she  sat  on,  and  they  clung 
to  her  with  their  little  rough  grimy  hands.  Her  own 
heartache  taught  her  to  understand  better,  and  as  she 
walked  home  she  felt  that  somehow  this  had  happened 
before,  and  recollected  the  child  under  the  stars  the 
night  Eric  sailed. 

"Is  that  what  sorrow  is  for?"  she  thought. 

Two  days  afterward  Mrs.  Catchpole  was  blocking 
up  the  narrow  passage  in  the  house  in  Marshom  Street 
with  her  big  body. 

"Well,  miss,"  she  said,  "I  ain't  got  nofink  ter  bury 
'er  with,  I  ain't,  it's  the  Lord's  truf."  And  she  wiped 
her  inflamed  eyes  on  her  ragged  apron. 

"Now  Billy  and  Sal  is  insured,  an'  I  was  allays  a 
meanin'  to  insure  the  por  biby,  but  Mr.  Catchpole,  'e's 
bin  aout  a  work,  an'  I  that  porly  iver  since  she  was  borned, 
I  hain't  done  a  stroke,  as  trew  as  I  lives." 

Elizabeth  felt  convinced  that  the  last  fact  could  be 
proved  to  the  hilt. 

"Well,  you  see,  miss,  it's  this  wiy.  I  did  siy  ter  Mrs. 
Finchley,  thet's  my  landlidy,  I  says,  'I'll  'ev  ter  go  ter 


224  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

the  parish  abaout  'er.  I  ain't  got  enuf  for  tcr  bury 
'cr,'  and  she  says  'Don't  you  do  that,  Mrs.  Catchpolc, 
you'll  regret  it  all  the  diys  of  yer  loife,'  she  says.  And 
my  Billy  and  Sal,  they  was  near  ravin'  abaout  it, 
and  says  as  they'd  go  awiy  if  Louisa  isn't  buried  decent. 
So  I  goes  ter  Mr.  Wright,  in  the  Cornford  Road,  an'  I 
says,  'What'll  yer  do  it  for?'  An'  'e  says,  'Three  poun' 
ten  under  the  feet,'  an'  I  says,  'If  I  can  get  the  money 
I'm  done  with  you,'  I  says,  for  under  the  feet,  you  see, 
miss,  for  a  hinfant  is  quite  respectable." 

Elizabeth  listened.  She  was  too  well  acquainted 
with  the  sight  of  constant  funerals  not  to  know  that 
"under  the  feet"  meant  the  combination  of  hearse  and 
carriage  which  tucks  the '  coffin  under  the  driver's  box. 
She  hesitated.  She  was  always  strongly  warned  by 
Miss  Osterley  to  give  no  funeral  money,  but  this  once, 
she  thought,  just  once;  and  the  remembrance  of  the  two 
children  overcame  her  scruples. 

"I'll  give  you  two  pounds  toward  it,  Mrs.  Catch- 
pole,  if  you  can  find  the  other  thirty  shillings." 

"I  dare  say  I  could  do  that  much,"  said  Mrs.  Catch- 
pole,  carefully  concealing  her  content;  "I'm  sure  I'm 
very  griteful  to  yer."  And  the  business  over,  Mrs. 
Catchpole  fell  to  weeping  again,  as  was  proper  for  a 
mother  in  bereavement. 

That  matter  settled,  Elizabeth  went  back  to  her  room, 
but  the  next  Saturday,  as  she  went  out  on  her  rounds, 
she  passed  a  black  carriage  with  the  driver  wearing  a 
white  streamer,  black  figures  inside,  and  two  little  faces 
gazing  from  the  window.  It  was  an  hour  of  importance 
and  pride.  The  drive  up  the  long  road  past  all  sorts  of 
familiar  faces,  such  as  the  church  and  the  school,  was 
of  such  supreme  interest,  that,  for  a  time,  pleasure  almost 
overmastered  pain;  and  it  was  only  when  the  grand 
carriage  had  gone,  and  the  black,  lent  for  the  occasion 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  225 

by  sympathetic  neighbors,  had  gone  too,  that  Billy  and 
Sally,  wandering  out  into  the  court,  realized  the  fact 
again  that  Louisa  was  "awiy  there  under  the  ground," 
and  would  never  crow  nor  cry  any  more;  and  their  arms 
and  hearts  felt  very  empty. 

"I  shall  be  off  on  the  doss  a  bit,  Sal,"  said  Billy.  "I'll 
come  back,  I  promise  yer,  but  this  yer's  'orrible,  and  I 
must  git  aout." 

"  Oh,  Billy,  mind  you  come  back,"  sobbed  Sal. 

Michael  Fane  was  at  all  times  a  busy  man,  with  a 
mind  which  gave  itself  whole-heartedly  to  the  interest 
of  the  hour.  He  had  acquired  a  habit  of  work  so  stren 
uous  that  deviation  from  his  routine  seemed  to  him  a 
waste  of  energy,  and  he  had  almost  brought  himself  to 
believe  that  any  indulgence  of  his  own  tastes  or  affections 
was  equally  a  deflection  from  the  straight  line  of  self- 
suppressing  duty,  which  he  followed  relentlessly. 

He  had  for  Elizabeth  and  for -his  mother  so  loyal  a 
devotion,  that  any  sacrifice  for  their  welfare  which  he 
felt  was  right,  would  be  to  him  not  only  possible,  but 
welcome.  But  he  looked  on  his  love  for  them  rather 
as  a  weakenss  than  a  gain,  and  often  denied  himself 
the  delight  he  had  in  their  society,  because  he  had  an 
almost  morbid  dread  of  allowing  pleasure  to  acquire 
any  power  over  him.  He  was  not  analytical  about 
himself,  but  if  two  ways  were  open,  he  generally  felt  it 
right  to  take  the  one  which  afforded  him  least  satisfaction. 

He  was  unhappy  about  Elizabeth,  when  he  allowed 
himself  to  think.  He  saw  that  she  was  languid  and 
depressed,  that  she  had  less  spring  and  vitality  than 
when  she  first  came  to  London,  that  she  had  lost  belief 
in  the  outworking  of  remedies,  which  he  held  would 
eventually  do  much  to  heal  existing  ills.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  advise  her,  but  in  order  to  help  her  to  over- 
is 


226  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

come  her  depression,  he  was  continually  encouraging 
her  to  do  more  work.  He  was  puzzled  to  know  where 
the  trouble  lay.  Was  she  still  thinking  of  that  fellow 
Errington?  That  seemed  to  him  to  be  almost  a  lack  of 
self-respect.  What  could  she  hope  for  from  a  man  who 
had  deliberately  left  her  from  the  most  sordid  motives? 
Was  the  work  she  had  undertaken  distasteful?  He 
felt  sure  this  could  not  be  the  case,  as  he  saw  daily  the 
evidence  of  her  real  love  for  the  people  among  whom 
she  lived. 

It  was  all  an  enigma.  He  would  give  worlds  to  shield 
her  from  trouble,  and  yet  he  saw  each  day  the  look  of 
sadness  become  more  habitual,  and  he  turned  back  to 
work  with  a  dull  ache,  which  seemed  to  him  lamentable 
weakness. 

At  last  he  decided  to  talk  the  matter  out  with  Father 
Martin.  He  found  him  late  one  Sunday  evening  when 
church  was  over.  He  was  sitting  in  his  study  by  a  fire 
which  his  housekeeper  had  insisted  on  lighting,  in  spite 
of  his  remonstrance  that  the  season  of  fires  was  not  yet. 
He  was  very  white,  and  the  lines  which  seamed  his  face 
were  strongly  marked  in  the  flickering  light,  but  the 
smile  with  which  he  welcomed  Michael  made  him  look 
almost  young  for  a  moment. 

The  two  men  sat  together  discussing  Michael's  errand 
to  Germany,  the  state  of  German  factories,  their  system 
of  insurance,  and  some  troublesome  complications  among 
unions  at  home,  when  suddenly  Michael  said : 

"The  fact  is,  I  did  not  come  to  discuss  these  things; 
I  came  to  talk  to  you  about  Elizabeth." 

Father  Martin  looked  up  quickly.  Then  he  said, 
as  he  stooped  to  poke  the  fire: 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  I  am  not  very  happy  about 
her;  she  looks  harassed  and  troubled." 

Michael   found   the   subject   more   difficult   to   tackle 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  227 

than  he  had  imagined,  but  he  gave  a  short  outline  of 
what  he  believed  had  happened  at  Ilbury. 

"She  was  the  most  joyous  child  you  could  imagine," 
he  said,  "till  she  met  that  young  jackanapes  who  played 
fast  and  loose  with  her,  and  then  went  off  on  the  pretext, 
I  believe,  that  his  uncle's  fortune  wasn't  as  great  as  he 
thought;  and  now,  I  hear,  that  he  has  come  back  from 
South  Africa,  and  has  been  flirting  with  Lady  Cliffe, 
whose  husband  has  just  been  killed." 

"Poor  child!"  said  Father  Martin  slowly.  "But 
Lady  Cliffe  was  at  Marshom  Street  the  day  she  heard 
of  her  husband's  death.  She  was  broken-hearted;  I 
don't  think  she  can  have  been  to  blame." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  her,"  said  Michael, 
"only  I  believe  they  were  always  together  while  her 
husband  was  away.  But  it's  Elizabeth  I  want  to  help. 
What  can  be  done?  "  and  he  glanced  up  eagerly. 

Father  Martin  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  his  hands 
on  his  knees,  a  figure  bent  and  shabby,  but  with  a  head 
which  stood  out  against  the  darkness  of  the  room,  when 
the  light  shone  fitfully  from  the  flames,  with  all  the  dignity 
of  one  of  Angelico's  saints. 

"Does  she  know  you  care?"    he  said  after  a  while. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Michael.     "I  never  told  her  so." 

"There  are  other  ways  beside  speech,"  said  Father 
Martin.  "Does  she  know  you  care  to  be  with  her? 
Do  you  find  time  to  have  long  talks?" 

"I  have  very  little  time,"  said  Michael,  looking  at 
Father  Martin  wonderingly.  "I  am  always  hard  pressed; 
but  Elizabeth  knows  that;  she  knows  I  never  have  a 
moment,  and  she  has  very  little  time,  too." 

"But  of  course  you  have  some  leisure?  You  must 
have  that.  Does  she  know  that  you  consult  her,  care 
for  her  opinion,  get  her  help?  Don't  you  understand 
what  I  mean?  To  know  that  you  are  indispensable  to 


228  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

another  human  being  is  the  direct  road  to  love.  De 
pendence  is  the  first  gate.  Women  are  made  with  a 
desire  to  help;  it's  the  mother  instinct  in  every  real 
woman." 

Michael  looked  again  at  Father  Martin.  His  brow 
was  knit;  he  was  thinking  hard. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  "that's  a  new  idea.  No;  when 
I  have  been  to  her,  I  have  always  given  her  advice  and 
laid  down  the  law.  You  see  I  have  known  her  ever  since 
she  was  a  little  girl;  it  never  occurred  to  me " 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Father  Martin  smiling. 
"It  didn't  occur  to  you  that  the  little  girl,  grown  into 
a  woman,  is  probably  a  great  deal  wiser  than  you  are, 
that  she  can  protect  you  quite  as  much — no,  a  great 
deal  better  than  you  can  protect  her;  that  we  are  all 
just  the  children  of  every  good  woman." 

"Well,  but  what  must  I  do  to  save  her  from  this  man?" 
said  Michael,  as  though  anxious  to  come  back  to  first 
principles. 

"Show  her  how  necessary  she  is  to  you,  that  you  lean 
on  her,  want  her,  that  the  blank  without  her  will  be 
unbearable.  I  expect  she  thinks  now  that  you  very 
kindly  spare  her  a  little  time  when  you  can,  in  order  to 
give  her  good  advice  and  keep  her  going  along  your  lines." 

"Yes,1"  said  Michael  slowly,   "I  suppose  she  does." 

"That  will  never  make  any  woman  love,"  said  Father 
Martin,  looking  into  the  fire  again.  "You  have  to  ask 
her  to  give,  and  you  may  get  the  greatest  treasure  the 
world  can  bring  you ;  but  treasure  is  sought  for  deep  and 
long;  you  can't  turn  it  up  with  your  foot,  and  if  it  is 
worth  finding,  it  is  worth  looking  for." 

"I  expect  I  have  been  a  horrible  conceited  prig," 
said  Michael,  throwing  himself  back.  "I  seem  to  see 
that  I  have.  The  question  is  whether  I  can  ever  undo  it." 

"No,  not  that,  not  that,"  said  the  old  man  slowly; 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  229 

"only  you've  put,  what  you  think  is  your  work,  out  of 
proportion  in  your  life.  There  are  so  many  sorts  of 
work.  It  doesn't  all  mean  grind.  There  is  a  beauti 
ful  tender  work  which  some  are  given,  and  the  great 
mistake  is  to  imagine  that  that  doesn't  matter.  The 
happiness  of  humanity  is  a  splendid  thing,  but  some 
times  it  has  to  be  thought  out  en  bloc,  sometimes  just 
for  one  person.  But  happiness,  to  bring  it,  to  give  it, 
that  is  the  great  aim  of  life.  The  mediaevalists  have 
thought  that  suffering  was  the  gift  of  God,  but  it  is  joy 
to  give  which  is  the  very  essence  of  divine  life,  for  it 
contains  the  foundation  of  every  good.  Who  could  be 
joyous  who  defrauded  his  brother,  or  soiled  his  soul,  or 
was  cruel  and  bitter — all  these  things  kill  joy.  Only  to 
the  child-heart  is  joy  possible.  I  suppose  it  is  uncon 
scious  superstition  which  still  makes  us  mistrust  hap 
piness,  and  give  a  merit  to  suffering." 

"I  expect  you  are  right;  you  always  are.  I  will  begin 
again.  God  knows  I  don't  know  that  I  could  ever  make 
her  happy,  but  I'd  give  my  soul  to  try." 

"Well  try,"  said  Father  Martin.  "Be  human,  and 
make  her  feel  she  is  wanted  as  much  by  you  as  by  the 
child  in  the  court  who  clings  to  her." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Michael,  standing  up.  "If  it 
isn't  too  late,  I'll  try." 

"God  bless  you,"  said  Father  Martin.  "I  wouldn't 
say  that,  if  I  didn't  feel  that;  though  you  are  groping 
about  in  the  dark,  and  can't  see  Him,  your  heart  is  as  true 
to  Him  as  the  needle  to  the  pole." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  Michael  turned  to 
go.  After  he  shut  the  door,  the  old  man  got  up  and 
knelt  at  his  prayer  desk  before  the  ivory  crucifix,  the 
only  beautiful  thing  in  the  grimy  room,  and  thought  of 
the  man  and  woman,  in  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
God  who  is  love. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Two  months  after  Sir  John  Cliffe's  death  Major  Outline 
was  invalided  home ;  he  was  an  old  friend  of  Lady  Horn- 
den's,  and  had  known  Katherine  ever  since  she  was  a 
child.  He  had  written  to  tell  her  that  he  would  himself 
bring  Jack's  personal  things.  He  felt  sure  that  she  would 
rather  he  took  charge  of  them,  and  therefore  he  would 
keep  them  for  her  until  he  could  give  them  to  her. 

He  wired  on  the  day  he  landed  to  say  he  would  be 
with  her  next  day,  and  on  the   following   afternoon  he 
was  sitting  in  her  room  by  the  fireplace,  and  opposite  he 
to  him  on  the  green  sofa  she  was  listening  to  all  the  details 
could  give  her  of  her  husband's  death. 

The  elderly  soldier,  with  a  skin  like  parchment  and 
cheeks  hollow  from  his  recent  fever,  was  very  gentle, 
and  very  sorry  for  the  woman  who  sat  so  white  and 
still  while  he  told  his  story.  It  was  never  an  easy  task, 
he  thought,  but  this  was  dreadful.  He  tried  again  and 
again  to  bring  her  some  comfort,  it  was  so  horribly  sad. 

"The  poor  boy  ought  not  to  have  been  killed — it 
was  not  a  battle,  only  a  little  skirmish.  He  was  with 
a  patrol,  and  they  met  a  small  body  of  Boers,  probably 
not  more  than  twenty.  A  man  was  wounded,  and  Jack 
stopped  for  him  and  put  him  on  his  horse,  and  a  Boer 
turned  as  the  rest  scattered  and  fired  a  rifle.  It  went 
straight  through  his  heart  and  he  fell  stone  dead;  he 
could  not  have  suffered  a  moment.  He  was  such  a  good, 
good  chap — the  best,"  said  Major  Guthrie,  as  he  ner 
vously  turned  and  twisted  a  paper-knife  he  had  taken 
from  the  table,  near  the  sofa.  "I  couldn't  tell  you," 

230 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  231 

he  went  on  slowly,  "how  the  men  loved  him,  officers 
and  men — always  cherry  and  good  company,  and  kind— 
by  Jove!  he  was  a  real  good  fellow." 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  take  hers,  sympathetic  and 
protecting.  Katherine  put  her  thin  hand  in  his  for  a 
moment.  She  could  not  cry;  she  could  not  believe  in 
the  reality  of  the  scene.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though 
she  was  acting  a  part.  The  curtain  would  soon  go  down, 
and  then  she  would  get  up  and  go  back  to  real  life. 

The  fire  hissed  and  crackled  in  the  hearth,  and  for 
a  few  moments  this  was  the  only  sound.  Major  Guth- 
rie  took  a  small  parcel  out  of  his  coat  pocket  and  cut 
the  string,  liberating  the  packets  which  were  wrapped 
separately. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "are  the  little  things  they  found. 
I  thought  you  would  rather  no  one  else  touched  them. 
I  felt  I  should  like  to  bring  them  myself."  He  laid 
the  parcel  on  her  lap. 

She  took  up  each  little  packet  and  unwrapped  it. 
There  wras  his  watch.  His  mother  had  given  it  to  him 
when  he  went  to  Oxford;  the  words  "from  mother" 
were  engraved  inside  the  case.  She  remembered  he 
had  shown  it  to  her,  saying  how  characteristic  it  was 
that  the  inscription  should  be  so  short;  he  must  have 
inherited  his  curt  ways  from  her.  The  watch-chain 
she  had  seen  so  often,  and  a  pencil  he  always  used,  hung 
from  it.  The  sleeve-links  she  had  given  to  him  when 
they  were  engaged,  plain  gold  with  an  engraved  crest, 
for  Jack  had  a  horror  of  wearing  stones. 

There  was  still  another  packet.  Major  Guthrie  had 
got  up  when  she  opened  the  parcel,  and  had  stood  with 
his  back  to  her,  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  opened 
it  slowly — a  locket  with  a  chain.  She  held  it  wonderingly. 
She  had  never  known  he  possessed  this. 

"Was  this  found  too?"  she  said. 


232  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  turning  for  a  moment,  "they 
were  brought  straight  to  me." 

She  looked  at  it  again,  and  tried  to  open  it,  but  the 
catch  was  stiff. 

"I  never  dreamed,"  she  thought,  "he  would  care  like 
that.  I  wonder  where  he  got  it,"  and  she  almost  smiled 
to  think  of  Jack,  with  his  horror  of  sentiment,  wearing 
this  little  love-token.  It  was  open  now.  The  light  was 
not  good — hair,  and  some  writing  in  small  printed  letters, 
which  she  could  not  read.  She  bent  down  over  it,  and 
turned  it  to  the  firelight.  Hair  black  as  night!  What 
did  it  mean  ?  She  felt  a  sort  of  sick  dismay,  then  clasped 
the  locket  and  held  it  tight  in  her  hand. 

Major  Guthrie  had  left  the  window  and  sat  down 
opposite  to  her  again.  She  put  a  strong  check  on  her 
self,  and  said : 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  I  thank  you.  It  was  so  dear 
and  good  of  you  to  bring  them.  I  should  not  have  liked 
to  have  had  them  from  anyone  else." 

Somehow,  unconsciously,  her  tone  had  changed;  it 
was  harder,  drier  than  before.  He  felt  the  difference, 
but  did  not  try  to  account  for  it.  She  is  overcome,  he 
thought,  and  does  not  want  to  give  way. 

"My  mother  wants  to  see  you,"  said  Katherine;  "will 
you  go  to  her?  She  is  downstairs.  I  am  sure  you  will 
understand  if  1  say  I  want  to  be  alone.  Don't  let  her 
come  to  me.  She  will  care  so  much  to  hear  all  your  news." 

He  got  up  and  looked  down  at  her.  The  watch  and 
chain  and  sleeve-links  lay  on  the  sofa.  The  locket  she 
still  held  tightly  in  her  left  hand. 

"I  can't  thank  you  enough,"  she  repeated  wearily; 
but  the  words  seemed  almost  to  push  him  from  the  room. 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  door  and  shook  hands 
again,  and  then,  as  he  shut  it,  she  went  quickly  to  the 
window  and  wrenched  open  the  locket  once  more.  Yes, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  233 

there  was  no  mistake — hair  black  as  her  gown,  and 
opposite,  in  tiny  printed  writing,  the  words:  "For  my 
beloved,  from  E.  M." 

She  felt  stiff  and  cold.  What  did  it  mean?  Her 
head  reeled;  she  could  not  think.  Every  power  seemed 
paralyzed.  Outside,  the  carriages  rolled  in  dull  mo 
notony.  The  well-dressed  people  were  driving  just  as 
they  did  an  hour  ago — the  happy  people  who  had  no 
pain — the  shops  were  full  of  pretty  things,  and  the  theatres 
would  soon  begin.  The  world  was  going  on,  and  on, 
all  round  her.  The  winter  afternoon  was  closing  in, 
night  was  coming.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the 
window-pane.  It  was  not  the  same  world  as  it  was. 
Everything  was  gone.  Jack — what  did  it  mean  ?  Jack, 
whom  she  loved  because  he  was  good  and  different  from 
other  men.  Was  he  really  just  the  same  as  everybody 
else  ?  Had  he  some  vulgar  intrigue,  some  history,  which 
made  him  just  like  other  people,  only  much  worse,  be 
cause  he  was  always  by  way  of  being  different?  She 
could  not  place  him  in  this  light,  try  as  she  would.  Her 
thoughts  turned  back  and  back.  The  days  and  minutes 
were  shrinking;  time  seemed  to  have  ceased;  life  all  one 
day.  It  seemed  as  though  this  morning  they  had  stood 
together  under  the  roses  in  the  long  garden,  with  the 
summer  sun  over  them.  She  saw  him,  straight  and  strong, 
look  down  on  her,  and  stoop  and  take  her  hand,  and  tell 
her  she  must  have  guessed  what  he  was  going  to  say, 
and  then,  when  he  had  told  his  love,  how  he  had  lifted  her 
face  under  her  garden  hat,  and  she  had  felt  the  dice 
of  fate  rattle  out  of  the  box  as  she  cast  it,  and  said  that 
she  would  be  his  wife.  Could  he  have  been  deceiving 
her?  Could  he  have  loved  someone  else — then?  Was 
he  deceiving  her  through  the  short  days  of  their  married 
life,  when  he  used  to  talk  to  her  of  the  ideal  he  wanted 
her  to  fulfil,  when  he  constantly  said  that  life  was  a  serious 


234  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

thing,  with  serious  duties,  and  spoke  of  their  responsibili 
ties;  and  all  the  while  was  he  leaving  her  for  this  other 
woman,  who  called  him  "Beloved?" 

She  felt  like  a  child  who  had  built  up  its  house  of 
cards  bit  by  bit  with  careful  hand,  and  then  suddenly 
some  careless  passer-by  had  shaken  the  foundation, 
and  the  whole  had  tumbled  into  ruin,  and  nothing  re 
mained — only  a  few  useless  memories.  She  walked 
to  the  fire  and  sat  down.  She  still  held  the  locket. 

"E.  M.,  E.  M.  ?"  she  said.  It  was  degrading  even  to 
\vonder  what  it  meant.  "Let  the  ugly  secret  be  buried," 
she  thought,  "and  let  me  never  remember  it  again." 

Then  the  destruction  of  the  plans  she  had  made  came 
sweeping  over  her.  There  was  no  memory  now  to  care 
for,  no  expiation  owing  to  him  for  her  folly.  There 
would  be  no  sense  in  spending  a  life  mourning  for  Jack, 
who  cared  for  someone  else  while  he  was  alive.  It  was 
all  hollow  humbug;  and  she  rubbed  out  the  picture 
which  she  had  drawn,  with  feverish  haste. 

For  a  while  her  icy  desolation  left  her  in  a  solitude 
so  complete  that  -the  thought  of  no  other  human  being 
found  its  way  into  the  dreary  region  of  her  future,  but 
at  last,  as  her  mind  began  to  readjust  itself,  she  thought 
of  Eric,  and  it  was  almost  with  a  sense  of  triumph  that 
she  resolved  to  close  the  door  of  memory,  to  drop  the 
burden  of  remembrance,  and  go  out  empty  handed  to 
grasp  all  that  the  future  held  for  her,  and  walk  the  ways 
which  might  lead  her  into  happiness.  Only  she  knew 
that  her  belief  in  God  and  man  had  gone,  and  instead 
had  come  a  reckless  longing  for  a  life  which  should  help 
her  to  forget. 

Katherine  stood  in  Elizabeth's  room.  She  had  ordered 
the  brougham  and  had  driven  straight  across  London. 
She  must  tell  her  at  once  that  the  plans  she  had  built 
up  were  shattered.  As  she  whirled  through  the  lamp-lit 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  235 

streets  she  could  not  decide  whether  to  tell  her  the  whole 
story,  or  only  to  say  vaguely  that  she  had  changed  her 
mind.  Both  appeared  to  her  unsatisfactory. 

To  Katherine,  who  had  always  stood  in  her  world 
as  the  woman  admired  and  adored,  it  seemed  a  ter 
rible  humiliation  to  confess  that  she  had  found  some 
other  woman,  or  even  the  memory  of  another  preferred 
before  her.  And  yet,  if  she  altered  her  plans  from  mere 
caprice,  she  could  see  the  pitying  look  in  Elizabeth's  face 
for  a  woman  so  unstable.  She  felt,  as  she  had  often 
before,  that  she  must  let  the  matter  be  decided  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment. 

Elizabeth  was  out.  Martha  thought  she  would  be 
back  in  half  an  hour.  Katherine  was  restless,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  little  gas-lit  room.  She  could 
not  bear  these  waiting  moments.  Thoughts  were  torture, 
and  solitude  intolerable.  She  tried  to  detain  Martha, 
but  after  a  few  answers  to  her  questions,  Martha,  who 
had  a  deep  respect  for  "titled  people,"  believing  her 
presence  an  intrusion,  withdrew  into  the  kitchen. 

She  looked  round  the  room.  There  were  Elizabeth's 
books  as  she  had  left  them.  What  had  she  been  reading  ? 
Two  new  novels,  "  Green's  History  of  the  English  People," 
a  book  on  the  Boer  War,  and  a  series  of  essays  on  social 
questions.  Katherine  opened  them  one  after  the  other, 
then  laid  them  down,  sighed,  and  walked  about  the  room 
again.  Presently  she  stood  before  the  writing-table,  a  small 
heap  of  tradesmen's  books,  the  club  books,  and  mothers' 
meeting  accounts.  How  deadly,  thought  Katherine, 
as  she  looked  at  them.  Her  eye  caught  a  small  worn 
book  which  lay  by  their  side,  a  Bible  with  the  usual 
black  binding.  She  took  it  up.  The  gilt  had  long  gone 
from  the  edges.  The  paper  was  yellow.  Elizabeth 
must  have  used  it  all  her  life,  she  thought.  The  book 
was  full  of  photographs,  little  religious  prints  and  dried 


236  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

flowers.  I  wonder  what  meaning  they  have  for  her? 
thought  Katherine,  as  she  carefully  turned  the  pages. 
The  fly-leaf  was  covered  with  fine  writing  and  minutely 
printed  quotations.  At  the  top  of  the  page,  the  initials 
were  written  "E.  M.,"  and  underneath,  in  fine  printing, 
the  words,  "Beloved,  if  God  so  loved  us,  we  also  ought 
to  love  one  another." 

Katherine  read  them  through  twice.  What  did  they 
recall?  She  was  sure  she  must  have  held  that  book 
before,  then  trooping  through  her  brain,  reeling  out  in 
hot  haste,  came  the  memories  of  the  afternoon,  and  with 
half  a  cry  she  put  the  book  down,  opened  the  little  purse 
bag  she  had  slung  on  her  arm,  and  with  trembling  fingers 
disentangled  the  locket  from  its  wrappings,  wrenched 
it  open  again,  and  laid  it  on  the  book.  There  was  no 
doubt,  the  writing  was  the  same,  "E.  M."  and  the  word 
"Beloved."  It  could  be  no  mere  coincidence.  She 
bent  down  and  looked  again.  Yes,  every  fine  stroke  and 
careful  trick  were  identical. 

"Elizabeth,"  she  said,  almost  as  though  she  saw  her 
standing  there,  her  face  framed  in  the  dark  hair. 

Then  she  sat  down  again,  her  feelings  for  a  moment 
dulled.  She  must  think  it  out.  What  clew  had  she? 
What  could  she  piece  together  to  tell  her  she  was  right  ? 
She  tried  to  remember  all  that  Elizabeth  had  ever  told 
her  of  her  life.  It  was  not  much,  Katherine  remembered. 
She  had  mostly  spoken  of  her  own  concerns,  had  asked 
her  a  few  questions.  She  recalled  the  days  when  she 
had  spoken  of  Jack.  Elizabeth  had  always  seemed 
indifferent,  and  yet  somewhere  hidden  in  her  memory 
there  was  something  she  could  not  recall.  Carefully 
she  went  over  and  over  the  day  when  she  had  heard  of 
Jack's  death.  What  was  it  she  vaguely  recollected? 

"I  have  it,  I  have  it!"  at  last  she  said,  almost  aloud. 
"It  was  in  the  carriage  when  she  kissed  me,  and  said 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  237 

it  is  worse  for  her  than  for  me,"  and  she  threw  the  book 
on  the  table,  as  though  she  would  hurl  the  vehemence  of 
her  scorn  at  the  good  people  whose  idols  she  had  set  up. 

Then  she  fell  to  wondering  again,  with  her  head  pressed 
in  feverish  hands.  What  could  the  story  be?  When 
had  they  met  ?  How  was  it  possible  that  Elizabeth,  with 
her  clear  transparent  eyes,  could  have  deceived  her  all 
the  while?  And  yet,  why  should  she  doubt?  If  Jack 
was  false,  why  not  this  girl  too  ? 

Bit  by  bit  she  remembered  how  she  had  said  the  friend 
she  knew  in  South  Africa  was  dead.  Had  she  received 
earlier  news?  She  could  not  think  clearly  enough  to 
know  if  this  were  possible.  She  recalled  how,  on  the 
very  morning  of  his  leaving,  Jack  had  gone  out  and  left 
her  alone.  Was  it  in  order  to  see  Elizabeth,  to  have 
a  farewell  with  one  who  called  him  her  beloved,  while  she, 
Katherine,  was  waiting  for  him?  The  evidence  of  her 
senses  failed  her;  white  was  no  longer  white,  or  black 
black.  Her  mind  was  in  a  tumult  as  the  waves  of  recol 
lection  surged  up.  One  moment  the  whole  thing  seemed 
a  preposterous  folly,  the  next,  so  convincing  there  was 
no  loophole  of  escape  from  her  conclusions. 

At  last  the  key  scraped  in  the  keyhole  of  the  street 
door,  and  Elizabeth  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"Oh,  I  am  so,  so  sorry;  I  never  thought  you  would 
come,  or  I  could  have  got  through  the  class  twice  as 
quick.  I  just  made  out  the  time,  thinking  there  was 
only  supper  to  look  forward  to." 

She  came  toward  Katherine,  both  hands  outstretched; 
but  Katherine  stood  quite  still,  a  straight  line  of  black, 
by  the  writing-table. 

"I  came,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  very  hoarse, 
"to  ask  you  one  question.  I  think  I  may  be  certain 
you  will  answer  me  truly."  She  looked  straight  at 
Elizabeth,  who  looked  in  return  at  her  with  wide-open 


238  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

eyes  of  wonder,  as  though  she  thought  her  sorrow  must 
have  turned  her  head. 

"I  want  to  know  if  this  is  yours?"  and  she  held  out 
in  the  palm  of  her  black-gloved  hand  the  little  gold 
locket  with  its  broken  chain. 

Elizabeth  looked  down  at  it  for  a  moment.  She 
had  grown  very  white. 

"Mine?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yours,"  said  Katherine,  and  she  almost  pushed 
the  locket  open,  into  her  hand. 

In  a  moment  the  color  flew  to  Elizabeth's  cheeks,  pass 
ing  over  them  as  the  setting  sun  may  touch  a  cloud  at 
sunset,  and  then  leaving  her  face  white  and  set  again. 
She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment.  How  had  she  found 
it?  Among  Eric's  things?  Of  course  she  was  probably 
now  engaged  to  him,  and  she  thought  with  scorn  of  all 
Katherine's  grief. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  Lady  Cliffe.  "Yes, 
this  once  wras  mine." 

"When  did  you  give  it?"  asked  Katherine. 

"I  can't  be  questioned  about  it,"  said  Elizabeth, 
standing  very  straight.  "I  refuse  to  say  one  word.  I 
have  told  you  what  you  asked.  The  past  which  that 
belongs  to  is  mine,  it  is  dead  and  gone,  and  I  will  not 
drag  it  into  light.  It  can  do  no  good,  only  hurt  me,  and 
perhaps  hurt  you." 

Katherine  was  silent.     She  had  not  expected  this  answer. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  said  at  last  in  cold  even  tones, 
"that  if  you  refuse  to  say  anything  you  may  wrong  some 
one,  give  a  false  impression?"  and  she  looked  at  her 
almost  appealingly. 

"I  can  give  no  false  impression;  there  is  none  to 
give.  I  gave  it  to  the  person  in  whose  possession  you 
found  it.  I  can't  say  any  more,  and  you  mustn't  ask  me." 

There  was  dead  silence. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  239 

"You  can,  of  course,  refuse  to  tell  me  more,  but  before 
I  go  I  want  to  say  that  to-day  all  my  ideals  have  been 
killed.  I  believed  in  him  and  I  believed  in  you,  and 
now  I  know  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  good  man  or  a  good 
woman ;  that  I  shall  never  see  a  man  who  professes  to  be 
honorable  and  true,  but  I  shall  feel  that  deep  down  in 
his  heart  he  is  deceiving,  if  someone  trusts  him  he  will 
betray  him;  he  is  nothing  but  a  coarse  animal,  like  the 
rest  of  them,  with  low  intrigues.  And  I  shall  never  see 
a  woman  who  is  supposed  to  be  doing  good,  that  I  shall 
not  know  it  is  a  pose,  and  that  she  too  has  her  miserable 
squalid  love  affairs,  and  will  snatch  a  man  from  another 
woman  as  ruthlessly  as  a  dog  will  steal  a  bone.  Thank 
God,  my  eyes  are  open.  I  see  the  world  as  it  is,  in  all 
the  slime  and  dirt  of  its  hypocrisy." 

Elizabeth  stood  still  as  though  she  was  turned  to 
a  stone.  What  did  this  outburst  of  jealousy  mean? 
It  was  horrible.  Could  any  woman  so  lose  her  dignity? 
She  at  any  rate  would  keep  command  of  herself.  She 
was  perfectly  silent  for  awhile,  and  then  said : 

"I  cannot  talk  to  you  as  you  have  talked  to  me.  I 
have  told  you  all  I  ever  mean  to  say,  and  beyond  that 
I  have  nothing  to  tell." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Katherine.  She  was  gone,  and 
Elizabeth  was  alone. 

Michael  had  thought  again  and  again  of  Father  Martin's 
advice.  He  seemed  to  have  shed  a  new  light  on  his 
intercourse  with  Elizabeth.  He  was  right,  no  doubt. 
It  was  his  own  selfishness  which  had  hitherto  spoiled 
his  affection,  and  she  had  only  seen  a  self-absorbed  man, 
with  whom  she  had  infinite  patience.  With  characteristic 
violence  he  threw  himself  into  this  view,  and  determined 
that  from  henceforth  she  should  see  the  fruits  of  his 
repentance. 


24o  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Filled  with  this  thought  he  went  to  her  room  at  nine 
o'clock.  Supper  would  be  over  he  knew.  It  was  the 
time,  and  the  day,  when  leisure  might  be  reckoned  upon 
for  both.  The  door  was  opened  by  Martha  and  he 
walked  into  the  sitting-room  expecting  to  find  her  reading 
by  the  fire  in  her  accustomed  place,  but  Elizabeth  was 
sitting  at  the  writing-table,  her  head  in  her  hands,  and 
the  outline  of  her  figure  suggested  the  most  absolute 
dejection.  Michael  hesitated;  then  she  turned  and  got 
up,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  free,"  she  murmured. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  She  had  not  been  cry 
ing,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost.  He  sat 
down,  awkward  and  silent.  He  was  no  diplomatist, 
otherwise  he  would  have  so  dexterously  handled  her 
that  he  would  have  led  her  gently  round,  and  she  would 
have  found  herself  speaking  of  her  grief  before  she  was 
aware  he  had  approached  the  subject. 

The  strong  figure  sat  in  the  firelight,  and  the  eager 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her,  and  then  at  length,  in  almost 
beseeching  tones,  he  said: 

"Little  Betty,  you  are  unhappy.  Do  let  me  help  you. 
Tell  me  if  I  can." 

The  touch  of  human  sympathy  broke  down  the  barriers 
of  Elizabeth's  reserve,  and  bit  by  bit  she  told  her  story, 
touching  lightly  on  her  engagement  to  Eric. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "he  could  not  help  it;  there 
was  the  place  to  keep  up,  and  the  money  was  not  enough 
to  justify  his  marriage." 

Then  in  broken  sentences  she  told  him  about  Katherine. 
He  put  a  strong  control  on  himself,  and  he  did  not  show 
the  deep  resentment  he  felt  toward  the  "mean  dog," 
as  he  inwardly  called  Eric. 

At  last,  when  she  paused,  he  looked  up  at  herj  and 
his  eyes  glistened  strangely,  as  he  said: 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  241 

"Poor  little  Betty!  Have  you  been  carrying  this 
big  burden  all  alone?  Could  I  do  nothing  to  lighten 
it  for  you?" 

"I  knew  how  full  your  thoughts  were  of  other  things," 
she  answered,  and  her  words  carried  a  reproach,  of 
which  she  was  unaware. 

Michael  winced. 

"It's  a  damnable  business,"  he  said,  as  he  looked 
again  into  the  fire.  "Of  course  it  will  sound  rot  to  you, 
but  I  can't  help  saying  it.  Do  try  and  put  the  whole 
crew  out  of  your  mind.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  will  have 
no  peace  till  you  have  done  it.  This  man  and  woman 
ought  not  to  spoil  your  life." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  Michael,  I  know,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  You 
will  tell  me  there  are  others  to  live  for,  and  so  there  are, 
but  sometimes  it  seems  almost  impossible  to  care  for 
dull  duty,  it  is  such  a  dry,  hard  thing;  and  then  every 
thing  is  ugly,  oh,  so  ugly,"  she  said,  holding  her  hands 
up,  as  though  she  were  warding  something  from  her, 
"horrible  streets,  hideous  houses,  and  often  such  ugly, 
ugly  lives.  It's  this  dead  level  of  ugliness  which  almost 
kills  me,  and  it  all  seems  as  though  we  were  doing  no 
good,  only  robbing  our  own  lives  of  things  that  make 
them  worth  living." 

Michael  sat  silent.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have 
fiercely  argued  the  point  with  her,  but  he  began  to  realize 
that  the  social  work,  which  to  him  was  absorbing,  com 
bined  as  it  was  with  the  interest  of  his  profession,  was 
a  daily  sacrifice  to  her.  His  mind  was  essentially  Puritan 
in  mould;  to  him  principles  were  as  the  breath  of  life. 
He  had  no  passionate  desire  for  beauty ;  in  his  daily  ex 
istence  the  incentive  to  unceasing  toil  was  to  bring  ultimate 
blessing  to  the  world;  in  the  better  ordering  of  life,  he 
found  his  ideal.  He  saw  the  beauty  of  a  spring  morning 
or  a  summer  night,  but  it  was  an  unimportant  fact,  a 
16 


242  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

pleasure  he  enjoyed  as  a  change  from  serious  work.  It  did 
not  possess  his  soul,  and  fill  him  with  a  great  longing  to 
live  near  to  the  heart  of  that  which  gave  it  birth.  He 
had  not  a  quick  sight  to  catch  every  transient  mood  of 
sky  and  cloud,  of  light  and  shadow,  every  delicate  texture 
of  the  changing  seasons,  but  he  had  eyes  for  the  sadness 
of  humanity. 

He  took  in  at  a  glance  the  horror  of  an  unsanitary7  area, 
the  poverty  hidden  beneath  a  thin  layer  of  respectable 
cleanliness.  He  could  diagnose  the  symptoms  of  the 
ill-fed,  and  pick  out  children  from  a  crowded  class,  with 
unerring  judgment,  who  were  ill-treated  or  half-starved. 
It  was,  therefore,  to  him  an  effort  to  throw  himself  into 
this  longing  after  what  he  would  call  material  beauty, 
which  so  possessed  the  soul  of  Elizabeth,  and  yet  he  tried 
to  understand. 

"You  ought  to  get  away  oftener,"  he  said.  "You 
ought  to  go  into  the  country.  My  mother  is  longing 
for  you  to  go  to  her.  It  would  give  you  change  and 
the  surroundings  you  care  for." 

"But  don't  you  see,"  she  answered,  "that's  the  whole 
difficulty.  I  can't  get  away.  It  is  not  my  body  that 
wants  to  be  free,  it's  my  mind.  If  I  go  among  fields,  I 
see  before  me  the  streets  and  the  children;  and  when  the 
flowers  are  round  me,  I  smell  only  the  dreadful  houses 
and  the  baking  streets.  I  can't  forget;  I  can't  get  away; 
I  feel  chained  to  the  horror  of  it.  Don't  think  me  foolish 
and  hysterical,"  she  said,  as  she  put  her  hand  up  with  an 
almost  imploring  gesture,  "but  I  sometimes  think  that  to 
have  seen  it  all,  to  have  known  it,  eats  the  heart  out  of 
life." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Michael,  but  he  spoke 
very  gently,  "how  you  can  really  logically  look  at  it  all 
quite  like  that.  I  have  no  certainty  as  to  the  individual 
direction  of  the  affairs  of  our  little  planet,  other  than 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  243 

that  which  we  as  intelligent  beings  can  bring  about;  but 
you,  Betty,  believe  in  a  Supreme  Will,  which  orders  good 
and  evil.  Can't  you  leave  the  arranging  of  it  to  higher 
knowledge?" 

Elizabeth  turned  round  and  looked  at  him. 

"Michael,"  she  said,  "I  do  believe,  I  do  try  to  believe, 
but  it  is  so  hard  to  think  that  the  wrong  which  we  would 
not  for  a  moment  allow  is  permitted  by  a  Being  infinitely 
good." 

''Talk  to  Father  Martin  about  it,"  said  Michael  help 
lessly.  "I  am  sure  you  are  not  looking  at  things  from 
a  strong  sane  standpoint,  and  your  own  sorrow  dims 
your  vision  about  everything  in  the  world  just  now." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "I  sometimes 
feel  that  only  the  very  happy  should  work  in  these  sur 
roundings." 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could  bring  that  into  your  life," 
said  Michael,  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  the  strength  of 
the  purpose  which  possessed  him  shone  out  as  he  spoke. 

"Dear  old  friend,"  she  said,  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder  as  she  got  up  and  stood  beside  him, 
"you  have  made  me  ever  so  much  better  and  stronger 
by  letting  me  talk  to  you  to-day.  I  don't  know  how 
Vesuvius  feels  after  an  eruption,  but  I'm  sure  its  fiery 
heart  must  be  relieved,  and  my  crater  seems  less  pent-up 
with  furious  thoughts,  and  burning  hate,  and  all  sorts 
of  bad  red-hot  things,"  and  she  gave  a  mirthless  little 
laugh. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"I'M  certainly  glad;  I  may  have  had  objections  long 
ago.  Katherine  was  a  mere  child,  she  did  not  know  her 
mind.  It's  a  mercy  that  after  the  stress  and  strain  through 
which  the  poor  lamb  has  passed  she  should  have  found 
a  fold  to  anchor  in,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  her  metaphors 
getting  a  little  mixed.  "It  has  certainly  brought  me 
relief,  and  Eric  is  really  very  charming,  a  little  too — 
artistic,"  hesitating  for  a  word,  "but  very  delightful." 

Anne  Rodney  was  sitting  in  the  house  in  Park  Lane 
some  weeks  later.  She  had  just  heard  of  Katherine's 
engagement  to  Eric,  and  she  had  been  intensely  anxious 
to  discover  what  had  so  suddenly  dried  her  tears,  and 
\vhy,  within  a  few  months  of  Jack's  death,  her  engagement 
was  privately  announced  to  her  intimate  friends. 

"I  am  delighted  she  is  happy.  I  don't  like  Eric  Er- 
rington,  but  that's  a  detail.  It's  a  mercy  we  are  not  all 
made  alike,  otherwise  the  scrimmage  for  one  man  would 
be  appalling.  But  do  tell  me  how  it  is  that  Katherine, 
who  was  heart-broken,  has  so  suddenly  got  over  poor 
Jack's  death?" 

"She  was  not  heart-broken,"  said  Lady  Hornden, 
valiantly  abandoning  the  position  she  had  so  persistently 
maintained.  "It  was  a  terrible  blo\v,  and  of  course 
no  one  can  be  married  to  a  man  without  feeling" — she 
felt  she  was  becoming  involved — "terribly  shocked,  and 
Katherine  is  very  sensitive;  but  dear  old  Jack,  whom 
I  really  was  devoted  to,  was  almost  too  matter-of-fact 
for  her,  she  is  so  poetic  and  so  full  of  ideals,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,"  she  added  vaguely. 

244 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  245 

Anne  looked  at  her  with  her  steely  blue  eyes.  She 
longed  to  remind  her  that  she  had  always  told  her 
Katherine  did  not  care  for  Jack,  but  she  refrained. 

"Is  she  happy  now?"  said  Anne.  "When  I  saw 
her  I  thought  somehow  she  looked  worn,  but  perhaps 
that's  only  the  effects  of  the  shock." 

"Katherine's  a  shadow;  I  can't  make  it  out.  I've 
taken  her  to  Dr.  Reader,  the  specialist,  and  he  says 
he  will  watch  her.  He  didn't  understand  what  was 
wrong.  He  put  her  on  beef-tea  and  port.  She  wasn't 
a  bit  better;  so  then  I  insisted  on  her  seeing  Argon,  and 
he  took  away  all  meat,  and  makes  her  eat  toast  and  drink 
milk.  What  are  you  to  believe  ?  It's  worse  than  religion. 
They  all  differ  absolutely,  and  they  are  all  so  certain  they 
are  infallible." 

"And  what  has  become  of  the  girl  in  the  slums  Katherine 
was  so  mad  about?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lady  Hornden.  "I  suppose 
she  hasn't  time  to  think  about  her.  I  have  heard  nothing 
of  her,  and  I'm  glad.  I  don't  want  her  to  go  to  those 
nasty  typhoidy  places,  smelling  bad  smells,  and  carrying 
back  microbes  in  her  skirt.  Oh,  how  good  of  you  to 
come,  Sir  James,"  she  said,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
the  newcomer. 

"Whose  skirts  carry  microbes?"  said  Sir  James, 
after  he  had  shaken  hands  with  both  women.  "Is  it 
indiscreet  to  ask?" 

"The  women  who  are  foolish  enough  to  go  to  the 
slums,"  said  Lady  Hornden. 

"Good  Lord,"  he  answered,  throwing  up  his  hands. 
"I've  seen  many  new  manias,  from  crinolines  to  motor 
cars,  but  upon  my  soul,  that  taste  beats  me  altogether. 
Everybody's  mad.  I  met  that  pretty  Sherringdon  girl 
the  other  day,  looking  tired,  with  her  face  dirty,  and  as 
draggle-tail  as  possible.  Where  had  she  been?  Oh, 


246  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

to  Whitechapel  or  Limehouse,  or  some  such  hole.  '  What 
good  do  you  think  you  do  ? '  I  asked  her.  '  Oh,  nothing 
much,'  she  said;  'but  everybody  goes  now.'  Ton  my 
word,  it's  absolutely  preposterous.  Why  not  stick  to  our 
end  of  the  town,  and  enjoy  what  the  gods  send  us?" 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  advent  of 
Katherine.  She  looked  pale  and  thin,  but  her  eyes 
were  large  and  bright,  and  her  presence  as  usual  had 
a  brilliance  which  always  seemed  to  surround  her  with 
an  atmosphere  of  success. 

She  laughed  when  she  saw  Anne,  held  out  her  face 
to  be  kissed,  and  said: 

"I  don't  expect  you  were  awfully  surprised.  I  knew 
mama  would  tell  you,  though  I  don't  want  it  blazoned 
out  just  yet."  She  shook  hands  with  Sir  James,  who 
murmured  his  congratulations. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  Eric  slumming?"  said  Anne, 
"in  order  to  show  him  the  only  side  of  life  I  am  sure  he 
hasn't  seen." 

"No,"  said  Katherine,  "I  am  going  to  spare  him 
that.  We  are  going  down  to  Ilbury  to  see  what  has 
to  be  done  to  the  place.  His  aunt  is  living  there,  just 
to  keep  the  house  together,  but  he  has  gone  to-day  to 
break  the  fatal  news  to  her,  and  ask  her  as  delicately  as 
possible  to  withdraw." 

"So  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  give  up  East  End 
saints,  and  doing  good?"  said  Anne.  "We  were  talking 
about  this  mania  for  East  Ending  before  you  came." 

"Well,  there's  something  to  be  said  for  mixing  philan 
thropy  with  pleasure,"  said  Katherine,  the  color  coming 
into  her  face,  as  she  stood  before  the  glass  above  the 
chimney-piece,  untwisting  her  veil  from  her  large  black 
hat,  and  unscrewing  the  little  knot  under  her  chin,  "be 
cause  when  pleasure  fails,  as  you  grow  old,  philanthropy 
will  receive  you  into  its  house,  and  you  end  your  days 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  247 

as  a  distinguished  good-doer,"  and  she  gave  a  bitter  little 
laugh. 

"When  I  see  the  sort  of  women  who  start  out  to  do 
it,  I  am  fairly  puzzled,"  said  Sir  James.  "I  daresay 
I'm  old-fashioned,  but  I  can't  see  the  point  of  doing 
good  between  evil;  it  seems  to  me  both  are  spoiled." 

Anne  laughed. 

"It's  on  the  no-drink-between-meals  principle,  which, 
if  it  became  universal,  we  are  told,  would  mean  that 
meals  would  go  on  all  day,  and  so  digestion  would  be 
ruined  as  well  as  brain." 

"At  any  rate,  let's  have  our  meal  now,  even  if  it  does 
not  last  till  dinner,"  said  Katherine,  as  luncheon  was 
announced. 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Sir  James  fervently. 

"What  I  always  say,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  with  an 
air  of  finality,  while  they  were  eating  hors  d'&uvres, 
"is,  that  it  is  really  impertinent  to  go  poking  about  other 
people's  houses.  Fancy  if  anyone  called  to  tell  us  we 
were  not  to  play  at  bridge,  or  motor  and  golf  on  Sunday." 

"They  do  try  to  tell  us,"  said  Katherine;  "only  luckily 
we  don't  hear  them.  If  they  attempted  to  come  and 
give  advice  in  the  house  of  anyone  whose  income  was 
over  two  hundred  a  year,  the  owners  would  call  the 
police." 

"Where  is  your  slum  saint,  Katherine?"  said  Anne. 
"Are  you  going  to  ask  her  to  Ilbury  with  a  selection 
of  her  converted  costers?" 

"No,"  said  Katherine  shortly,  and  turning  to  Sir 
James  she  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  the  new  opera, 
which  had  been  given  on  the  previous  night. 

"Indeed  I  have,  and  thank  heaven  that  there  is  still 
a  man  who  can  write  melody,  instead  of  producing  the 
clashing  of  milk-cans  on  the  pavement,  in  the  early 
morning,  and  calling  it  music.  Here  was  music  which 


248  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Grisi  and  Malibran  could  have  sung,  and  not  the  throat- 
destroying  yells  which  people  will  listen  to  for  seven 
hours,  and  pretend  they  enjoy  it." 

Anne  and  Lady  Hornden  differed,  and  the  conver 
sation  drifted  into  a  long  discussion  on  the  merits  of 
"The  Ring"  versus  what  Anne  called  the  "organ  grinder 
airs  of  the  Italian." 

The  argument  lasted  long  after  coffee  and  cigarettes 
were  brought,  and  ended  only  with  the  parting  of  the 
guests. 

%  s{c  ^c  :jc  ;}:  ;Jc  ^ 

The  gray  stone  house  stood  still  and  solemn  in  the 
sunshine.  Here  and  there  the  light  caught  a  window- 
pane  which  glistened  diamond-like;  beneath  the  heavy 
eaves  dark  shadows  hung,  making  a  long  splash  of  violet 
color  against  the  gray. 

It  was  springtime  and  there  was  a  dance  in  the  air, 
a  sound  in  the  woods,  which  told  of  that  enchanting 
season  wrhen  Persephone,  aroused  from  her  long  slumber, 
steps  forth  to  meet  Demeter,  who,  through  the  dull  dark 
days,  has  waited  patiently  for  the  gladdening  sight  of  her 
lovely  face,  and,  as  she  treads  the  green  young  grass, 
the  blossoms  bloom,  and  her  coming  is  hailed  in  chorus 
by  the  winged  lovers  of  the  woods,  for  the  world  is  once 
again  touched  into  life,  and  kissed  into  beauty. 

Katherine  and  Eric  had  driven  up  from  the  station, 
and  as  the  carriage  turned  out  of  the  avenue,  he  stopped 
it  before  they  reached  the  entrance. 

"Don't  go  into  the  house  now,"  said  Eric,  "this  is 
not  a  day  for  gardens  and  lawns,  but  for  orchards  and 
woods,"  and  he  slowly  drew  Katherine  toward  the  gate 
which  led  into  the  park.  "We  can  come  back  to  the 
old  place  later,  but  this  heavenly  spring  morning  calls  us 
with  such  an  irresistible  voice." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  together  they  wandered 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  249 

out  across  the  long  sweep  of  park  until  they  came  to 
the  uplands  where  hawthorn-trees  were  already  beginning 
to  show  "milky  pearls"  among  the  vivid  green  of  the 
spiked  boughs,  the  yellow  celandines  were  holding  out 
their  golden  cups  to  the  sun,  and  a  blackbird  sang  above 
them. 

"It's  a  day  that  makes  me  long  to  shout,"  said  Eric; 
"to  tell  the  whole  world  I'm  glad  to  be  alive,  that  I  have 
all  the  good  I  want.  Don't  you  feel  it,  Katherine,  this 
sense  of  life  pulsing  and  beating  through  all  creation, 
and  making  the  world  beautiful  for  you  and  me?" 

Katherine  looked  at  the  tall,  \vell-built  man,  broad 
of  shoulder  and  clear  of  eye. 

"I'm  happy  of  heart,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  feel 
physical  energy  enough  to  shout;  but  it's  glorious,  glori 
ous."  And  she  looked  out  over  the  golden  gorse  to  the 
blue  distance  of  hazy  hills. 

They  sat  down  together  on  the  bank.  The  warm 
sunshine  wrapped  them  round  and  the  air  was  filled 
with  the  hum  of  insects  brought  to  life  by  its  vitalizing 
power.  They  were  very  still  for  a  moment,  then  Katherine 
said: 

"I  should  like  nothing  ever  to  happen  any  more, 
the  world  to  go  on  just  like  this,  I'm  so  sick  of  events." 

"I  want  one  event  to  happen,"  said  Eric,  looking  at 
her,  "just  one,  and  then  a  truce  to  everything  else." 

Katherine  was  lying  full  length  on  the  grass,  watching 
tiny  insects  crawl  in  and  out  among  the  stalks.  She 
was  very  silent,  absorbed  apparently  in  her  occupation. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  said  Eric. 

"I  am  looking  at  these  wonderful  things,"  she  said. 
"I  can  see  the  ant  here  wandering  in  the  trackless  forest. 
How  awfully  rough  the  road  is  to  her.  Look,  she  is  push 
ing  and  carrying  her  load.  Now  she  is  stopped,  and  four 
others  have  come  to  help  her.  There  is  a  giant  mountain 


250  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

before  her,  she  has  passed  over  it  and  is  working  for  all 
she  is  worth,  going  long  distances  to  avoid  a  thick  clump 
of  grass.  Poor  little  busy  thing !  How  important  it  must 
all  seem  to  you." 

"Why  do  you  settle  that  it  is  a  female  ant?"  said 
Eric. 

"Because  she  is  really  doing  the  work  of  her  world, 
and  I  bet  some  male  ant  is  getting  the  credit." 

Eric  was  watching  too. 

"I  often  thought  in  South  Africa,"  he  said,  "that 
is  what  we  all  looked  like,  crawling  over  the  veldt  in 
the  lively  of  the  earth,  hosts  of  tiny  things  bent  on  de 
stroying  each  other." 

"It's  what  all  the  world  is,"  said  Katherine,  "pig 
mies  carrying  their  burdens  and  fighting  their  way  through, 
meeting  all  the  horrible  obstacles,  and  still  climbing  on, 
because  they  think  there  is  something  to  be  gained  in  the 
end." 

"Nothing  or  everything,"  said  Eric,  taking  her  hand, 
which  was  parting  the  grass  tufts. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  still  looking  down,  "or  everything. 
If  minds  could  only  be  wiped  clean  like  a  school-room 
slate,  after  the  sum  is  finished.  That's  life's  great 
Nemesis.  That  is  why  the  first  youth  is  the  only  time 
for  real  happiness.  After  that,  disillusionment  comes 
on  the  heels  of  trouble.  Oh,  it's  no  good  saying  it 
doesn't — it  does,"  she  said,  as  he  made  a  gesture  of 
dissent.  "All  my  life  I  have  felt  that  I  am  ever  so 
many  people,  that  I  was  born  with  a  sort  of  transmi- 
gratory  power,  which  could  get  in  and  out  of  different 
sorts  of  minds;  but  the  impressions  I  get  in  all  these 
different  characters  stay  with  me,  and  I  want  to  be  rid 
of  them." 

He  listened  wondering.  He  had  not  known  her  in 
this  mood. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  251 

"Life  is  so  full  of  illusions.  I  can  remember  each 
one,  as  they  brought  their  hateful  awakenings.  The 
first  I  ever  had,"  she  said,  sitting  upright  and  smiling, 
"was  once  when  I  was  ill,  as  a  child.  Mama  told  me 
I  might  send  out  and  buy  whatever  I  liked,  and  I  made 
the  nursery  maid  put  on  her  bonnet,  I  couldn't  wait  a 
moment,  and  bring  me  back  a  Noah's  ark.  I  longed 
to  have  one;  I  had  not  played  with  one  for  ages.  And 
she  came  back  with  the  huge  parcel,"  and  Katherine 
made  a  motion  with  her  hand  to  indicate  the  big  bundle 
under  the  woman's  arm,  "and  then  she  opened  it,  and 
I  had  a  little  tray  all  ready,  and  stood  the  animals  upon 
it.  One  by  one  I  took  them  out,  the  gray  elephants,  and 
spotted  tigers,  and  scarlet  foxes.  I  never  smell  fresh 
paint  now  that  I  do  not  think  of  it.  And  then  when 
they  were  all  ranged  in  rows,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Noah 
too,  it  suddenly  came  to  me  I  did  not  want  it,  I  had  out 
grown  it,  it  gave  me  no  pleasure,  and  I  lay  back  with 
such  a  horrible  aching  feeling  of  disappointment,  and 
cried  to  myself.  And  so  often  since  then,  things  have 
been  like  that  Noah's  ark." 

Eric  came  nearer  to  her. 

"You  shall  not  find  any  disillusionment  now,  Kath 
erine  darling.  The  rainbow  is  set  in  the  clouds,  the 
token  of  all  good  things." 

"Ah,  but  I  have  had  so  many,  so  many  disillusion- 
ments." 

"Only  because  you  never  met  anyone  who  really 
understood  you,  became  a  part  of  your  mind;  until 
then,  no  life  is  complete." 

They  talked  on  a  while,  then  turned  to  go  to  the  house. 

Katherine  was  full  of  admiration.  She  saw  the  dignity 
of  the  place,  and  the  possibilities  which  under  Eric's 
taste  and  knowledge  it  possessed. 

Old  Mrs.   Errington  welcomed  her  shyly.     She  had 


252  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

been  living  in  a  corner  of  the  house,  and  the  ugly  boudoir 
was  still  her  sitting-room. 

"Eric  told  me,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hands  to 
Katherine.  "I  was  so  glad — it  would  have  made  his 
uncle  very  happy.  I  am  really  glad  he  can  live  here. 
Of  course  it  may  want  a  few  things;  they  say  houses 

nowadays perhaps  some  electric  bells  and  new 

chintzes 

Katherine  smiled  kindly. 

"I  am  only  sorry  that  I  should  seem  to  displace  you." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Errington,  show 
ing  the  way  to  the  dining-room.  "Every  dowager  leaves. 
My  dear  brother  told  me  when  I  settled  here,  dear  Eric 

was  sure  to —  Indeed,  I  am  so  glad  he  is happy, 

he  deserves  it  so.  I  shall  always  remember —  -  Dear 
Lady  Cliffe,  what  will  you  have,  chicken  or  cutlets?" 
And  the  remembrance  was  lost  in  the  business  of  the 
moment. 

The  days  were  very  pleasant.  Eric  was  tender  and 
understanding,  and  the  interest  in  planning  the  remodel 
ling  of  the  old  house  was  really  delightful.  The  long 
drawing-room  was  to  be  panelled,  and  the  pictures  were 
to  be  taken  from  the  dining-room,  and  set  in  the  wood 
work. 

Eric  sketched  cornices  and  designed  ceilings,  and 
they  discovered  in  the  attics  some  really  fine  tapestry, 
which  had  been  discarded  in  the  early  part  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  for  the  horrible  flock  paper  which  dis 
figured  the  morning-room.  This  was  spread  out  upon 
the  grass,  and  Katherine  and  Eric  went  into  raptures 
over  the  borders  and  design. 

The  last  day  of  her  visit  had  come,  and  Katherine 
was  more  hopeful  of  the  possibility  of  happiness  than 
she  had  felt  since  the  day  when  she  said  she  had  ceased 
to  believe  in  man  or  woman.  To  Eric,  the  days  had  been 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  253 

as  a  dream,  from  which  he  almost  dreaded  some  awaken 
ing.  Everything  had  come  to  him — money,  and  conse 
quently  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  possessions,  and  with 
it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  London,  and  the 
envy  of  every  man  who  hoped  to  have  been  in  his  shoes. 
He  looked  at  the  old  house  with  grateful  pride.  He  had 
no  money,  but  certainly  he  had  a  great  place  to  give  her, 
and  she  appreciated  beautiful  things,  and  saw  its  worth. 

Now  and  then  the  remembrance  of  Elizabeth  came 
to  him  as  they  turned  along  the  way  which  led  to  the 
red  manor  house,  but  it  was  dimmed  and  blurred,  and 
he  only  felt  how  great  a  mistake  it  would  all  have  been, 
and  had  no  doubt  that  she  also  realized  it  by  this  time. 

"We  will  have  one  more  walk,  the  last  until  you  come 
back  to  the  old  place  as  home,"  said  Eric;  and  Katherine 
willingly  consented. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  on  the  grass  slopes 
as  they  crossed  the  park,  making  their  way  between 
the  stalks  of  the  ferns,  still  tightly  rolled.  At  last  they 
came  to  a  fallen  tree  which  lay  across  the  valley  through 
which  ran  the  winding  stream.  The  shadows  quivered 
among  the  branches  of  the  trees,  as  a  chill  wind  parted 
the  young  green  leaves.  Katherine  sat  down  on  the 
fallen  trunk.  Eric  was  engrossed  in  his  talk.  They 
were  discussing  ethical  questions,  and  Eric  was  main 
taining  that  there  was  beauty  in  abstract  goodness. 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  abstract  goodness,"  said 
Katherine.  "What  may  seem  good  to  you  would  be 
counted  wickedness  in  another  age,  or  to  another  people. 
There  is  nothing  worth  living  for  but  happiness  or  bicn 
etre,  as  the  French  call  it.  The  only  thing  to  be  really 
desired  is  to  be  pleased  with  one's  self  and  one's  sur 
roundings.  Don't  let's  talk  high-falutin  stuff  about 
goodness,  Eric,  it's  always  odious  and  generally  hypo 
critical." 


254  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Why  are  you  so  cynical?"  he  said.  "It's  bad  enough 
in  a  man,  but  it's  impossible  in  a  woman." 

"I'm  not  cynical,"  she  said.  "I'm  only  matter-of- 
fact.  Life  makes  us  that.  It's  unthinkable  that,  after 
twenty,  anybody  can  keep  up  illusions,  and  I  am  twenty- 
three." 

"Happiness  will  bring  them  back." 

"Never,"  she  answered  quickly.  "Not  the  same; 
others,  perhaps,  but  not  those  that  are  crushed  out." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  frail  little  figure  in  her  black 
tailor-made  gown  and  big  hat.  It  seemed  to  him  pitiful 
that  she  should  speak  of  disillusionments  at  a  time  when  life 
should  be  dawning  on  her  through  a  haze  of  happiness. 

"But,  Katherine,  darling,  I  don't  understand,"  he 
said,  kneeling  beside  her.  "You  have  had  bad  days, 
you  have  not  been  understood,  your  artistic  side  has 
been  dwarfed,  your  idealism  suppressed,  but  good 
ness  was  not  wanting.  You  can't  have  learned  to  dis 
believe  in  that?" 

He  felt  as  he  spoke.  How  generous  he  was  to  con 
cede  so  much  to  the  past! 

"Don't  speak  to  me  about  it,"  said  Katherine  fiercely. 
"I  have  seen  hypocrisy,  and  have  recognized  how  hideous 
a  thing  it  is — seen  it  in  man  and  wroman.  I,  who  always 
thought  that  I  was  first  with  all  wrho  loved  me,  have  found 
that  I  was  deceived,  betrayed.  I  can't  talk  of  it,  only 
never  let  me  hear  again  of  pure  men  and  saintly  women, 
for  I  should  cry  out  loud,  'hypocrite!  hypocrite!'  till  they 
ran  away  to  hide  the  shame  that  I  had  laid  bare."  The 
color  came  and  went  as  she  spoke,  and  her  eyes  grew 
bright  and  large. 

Eric  looked  at  her  almost  with  fear.  What  was  it 
that  so  possessed  her?  Why  had  this  thought  so  filled 
her  mind  and  being?  She  waited  a  moment,  and  saw 
that  he  looked  at  her  with  undisguised  amazement. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  255 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  "beside  me" — she  spoke  in 
little  short  staccato  sentences — "and  I  will  tell  you. 
You  think  I  am  mad,  but  I  am  not,  only  awakened.  I 
had  not  meant  to  say  anything  till — till  we  were  married, 
but  I  can't  let  you  think  you  are  going  to  marry  a  crazy 
woman,  so  I  will  tell  you  now,"  and  then  she  told  her 
story. 

For  a  moment  Eric  did  not  understand,  but  as  she  went 
on  to  tell  him  of  her  interview  with  Elizabeth,  the  memory 
of  the  day  in  South  Africa  swept  over  him.  He  felt  Jack's 
arm  round  him,  and  he  recollected  how  before  he  had 
gone  into  the  darkness  he  had  put  this  thing  into  his 
hand.  The  history  of  that  day  had  always  been  dim 
and  blurred,  but  now  the  remembrance  came  flashing 
back,  making  him  feel  dazed  and  giddy. 

"What  did  Miss  Mayncll  say?"  he  said,  and  his 
heart  beat. 

"There  was  no  getting  away  from  it,"  said  Katherine, 
"she  could  say  nothing.  I  asked  her  if  it  belonged  to 
her,  and  she  said  yes;  I  tried  to  get  her  to  tell  me  when 
she  had  given  it,  but  she  would  not.  She  was  as  dumb 
as  a  dog,  and  she  stood  there,  looking  me  in  the  face, 
and  would  not  say  a  word.  I  have  never  seen  her  again. 
Now  you  don't  wonder  that  I  am  disillusioned  about 
good  people,  do  you?" 

Eric  was  silent.  What  could  he  do?  If  he  told 
her  the  truth,  he  must  tell  her  the  whole  story  of  his 
engagement  to  Elizabeth,  and  she  would  probably  go 
back  to  her  absurd  romance  about  Jack,  and  the  pros 
pects  which  were  now  so  fair  would  be  ruined;  and  yet 
it  was  dreadful  to  allow  the  dead  who  could  not  defend 
themselves  to  be  wrongfully  accused.  Of  course  that 
must  not  be.  W7hen  she  was  his  wife,  at  some  future 
time,  he  would  tell  her  all  about  it.  It  was  a  horrible 
predicament,  and  it  was  hard  thus  to  injure  his  own  sense 


256  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

of  honor.  Then  he  recollected  how  he  had  heard  that  it 
was  a  man's  duty  to  deceive  sometimes,  for  the  protec 
tion  of  a  woman.  Of  course  this  was  an  instance  when  it 
was  really  right,  and  he  must  certainly  sacrifice  everything 
to  her  ultimate  happiness. 

"You  must  not  be  disillusioned,"  he  said  lamely. 
"There  may  be  some  great  mistake,  some  engagement 
before  he  met  you.  Such  things  have  been,  and  poor 
old  Jack  may  have  looked  on  this  thing  as  a  sort  of  mas- 
cotte." 

"Men  don't  carry  love  tokens,  given  to  them  by  other 
women,  if  they  care  for  their  wives,  and  Jack  of  all  men 
in  the  world!  It's  too  absurd,"  and  there  was  some 
contempt  in  her  tone.  "He  was  not  a  man  to  hang 
himself  out  in  charms.  If  he  loved  this  girl,  he  wore 
her  hair  because  he  was  really  devoted  to  her,  for  no 
other  reason  on  earth.  She  was  eating  her  heart  out 
about  some  man  in  South  Africa  all  the  winter;  I  saw 
that,  and  you  yourself  heard  her  say  he  was  dead." 

Eric  winced,  as  her  words  came  quick  and  convincing. 
It  was  evidently  no  use  arguing.  So  he  put  his  arm  round 
her,  and  told  her  very  tenderly  to  put  the  whole  question 
from  her. 

"Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead,"  he  said,  "and  let 
us  be  happy  in  the  living  present." 

"I  am  glad  I  have  told  you  all  about  it,"  said  Katherine, 
as  she  rose  and  stood  before  him.  And  then,  as  she  held 
out  her  hands  to  him,  Eric  remembered  that  on  this  very 
spot  he  had  tried  to  comfort  another  woman,  whose 
name  to-day  he  had  allowed  to  be  done  to  death,  and  the 
coincidence  appeared  to  him  ill-omened. 

"Mr.  Cave  is  in  the  library,  sir,"  said  the  servant, 
as  they  returned  to  the  house. 

"Tell  him  I  will  come,"  said  Errington.  "I  must 
leave  you  for  a  few  minutes,  darling.  It  is  my  solicitor. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  257 

He  has  come  about  the  settlements.  I  shall  not  be  long. 
You  will  rest,  won't  you?" 

"No,"  said  Katherine.  "I  don't  want  to  rest.  It  is 
still  so  lovely  I  will  wander  about  a  little,  and  wait  till 
you  are  free.  Don't  hurry,  I  am  all  right.  I  will  come 
in  for  tea,"  and  she  turned  back  into  the  garden.  Eric 
shut  the  library  door. 

Katherine  intended  to  stroll  leisurely  through  the 
flower-beds,  and  plan  what  she  would  have  planted  for 
this  summer,  until  she  could  get  designs  that  suited 
her  taste  better  than  the  existing  old-fashioned  parterre. 

Presently  she  noticed  she  had  lost  her  glove,  and  decided 
to  walk  back  to  the  tree  in  order  to  find  it.  She  went 
leisurely  over  the  way  she  had  come,  discovered  her 
property  close  to  the  fallen  trunk,  and  turned  to  retrace 
her  steps.  She  thought  she  could  find  a  quicker  way 
by  taking  a  grass-path  which  diverged  to  the  left,  and 
which  led,  she  remembered,  to  a  lane  into  which  one  of 
the  garden  gates  opened,  for  it  was  the  shortest  road  to 
the  village. 

The  shadows  were  growing  long,  and  the  wind  was 
keen,  so  she  walked  faster,  but  somehow  she  had  missed 
the  turning,  and  instead  of  finding  herself  opposite 
the  gate,  when  she  emerged  from  the  lane,  she  was 
high  up  the  hill,  looking  over  a  wide  sweep  of  open 
country. 

A  grass-field  crossed  by  a  narrow  field-path  lay  before 
her.  She  looked  round  to  see  if  anyone  was  near,  from 
whom  she  could  enquire  the  way,  but  the  rooks  were 
flying  overhead  noisily,  returning  to  their  rest,  and  no 
human  being  was  at  hand.  Presently  shuffling  footsteps 
came  behind  her,  and  the  bent  figure  of  an  old  woman 
in  a  rusty  brown  gown,  her  face  hidden  under  a  sun- 
bonnet,  came  slowly  up  the  little  hill.  She  did  not  look 
at  her  as  she  passed,  she  seemed  intent  only  on  getting 
17 


258  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

sufficient  strength  to  go  on  her  road ;  so  Katherinc  touched 
her  arm.  She  looked  round  startled. 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  back  to  the  Hall?"  she 
asked. 

The  old  woman  stopped,  and  pointed  down  the  hill. 
"Straight  on  till  yer  cum  ter  the  grass  road,  an'  then  yer'll 
see  a  little  gaite  on  yer  left  'and.  That's  the  garden  gaite, 
but  maybe  yer  wants  the  great  gaites?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Katherine,  "the  garden  gate  will  be 
all  right." 

"Be  yer  a-stayin'  wi'  the  old  laidy?"  and  the  withered 
face  looked  curiously  into  hers. 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine,  "but  only  till  to-morrow." 

"Ah,  they  tells  me  she's  a-goin',  por  old  laidy!  Young 
squire's  a-coumin'  'ome,  a-goin'  to  be  married,  or  sume- 
thin." 

"  Yes,"  said  Katherine,  enjoying  the  incognito.  "You'll 
all  be  glad  he's  coming  back,  won't  you  ?" 

"Well,  if  'e's  good  to  we,  we  shall  be  glad,  but  we 
doan't  know  nothin'  aboat  'im,  we  doan't,  but  there  is 
only  a  little  time  as  sum  of  us  will  be  goane.  There's 
foar  o'  mine  in  the  churchyard,  lady,  an'  I'm  a  goin'  there 
soon,  so  it  doesn't  much  matter  to  we." 

"Who  is  he  going  to  marry?"  said  Katherine,  anx 
ious  to  hear  the  village  verdict. 

"Ah  doan't  know.  Sum  gran'  lady,  they  says,  wi' 
a  power  a  muney.  Ef  'e'd  only  married  the  right  one, 
as  iverybody  thought  'e  would,  it  'ad  been  a  lucky  day 
for  us  poor  folks.  Ah,  she  was  a  good  lady,  she  was, 
but  I  dessay  she'd  not  a  been  'appy  wi'  'im — too  good 
for  'im,  I  believe,  an'  then  we're  all  a-goin'  so  soon,  it 
doan't  matter  much  what  'appens.  You're  a  pretty 
lady,"  and  the  old  dim  eyes  set  in  a  web  of  years  looked 
up  again,  "but  we're  arl  a-goin'  the  same  way,  right  ter 
yonder,"  she  said,  pointing  to  where  the  church  tower 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  259 

stood  grey  against  the  white  sky,  "an'  they're  a-carlin'  of 
us  to  cum,  they  be."  She  bent  down  over  her  stick  and 
shuffled  on,  and  Katherine  heard  her  murmuring  as  she 
went,  "they're  a-carlin'  of  us." 

She  shivered  and  turned  her  steps  back  in  the  direction 
the  old  woman  had  told  her  she  would  find  the  gate. 
"They're  a-carlin'" — she  kept  on  hearing  the  words 
as  her  dress  rustled  over  the  grass. 

That  evening  she  chaffed  Eric  about  the  "right  lady" 
— who  was  it? 

"What  rot!"  he  said,  as  he  laughed  too.  "She's 
an  old  crazy  woman.  You  should  not  encourage  her 
idiotic  talk."  But  the  old  woman's  words  troubled 
him.  Katherine  must  be  kept  from  these  foolish  people, 
otherwise  some  village  gossip  might  reach  her  and 
spoil  her  content. 

They  had  wandered  after  dinner  into  the  conservatory, 
which  led  out  of  the  uninhabited  drawing-room,  and 
were  standing  near  a  fern-grown  pool  of  water. 

"Do  you  see  that  tiny  plant?"  said  Eric. 

"Which,  the  one  with  the  long  stalk  floating  there?" 
said  Katherine,  pointing  to  the  spiral  flower. 

"Yes;  there  is  a  whole  romance  there.  That  is  the 
female  flower;  the  male  grows  low  down  in  the  dark 
ditches,  but  one  day  he  detaches  himself,  rises  upward,  and 
goes  to  seek  his  love.  He  wanders  down  the  water  till 
he  finds  her,  and  floats  with  her  for  a  happy  while.  Then 
she  leaves  him,  and  her  stalk  contracts  and  takes  her  down 
into  the  water,  where  the  seeds  ripen  in  safety." 

"But  where  does  he  go?"  said  Katherine. 

"He  has  no  life  in  himself;  he  has  broken  his  own 
life  to  go  to  her,  and  dies  without  her." 

"We  will  not  part  like  that,"  said  Katherine  with  a 
happy  laugh;  "we  will  sail  on  together." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ERIC  spent  a  wakeful  night.  He  went  over  the  events 
of  the  day  again  and  again.  He  tried  from  every  point 
of  view  to  look  at  them  in  a  satisfactory  light.  Nothing 
pleased  him.  How  other  could  he  have  acted?  What 
could  he  have  said  ?  Silence  was  as  betraying  as  speech. 
He  could  arrive  at  no  conclusions. 

"The  whole  thing  is  damnable,"  he  said,  as  he  pulled 
up  his  blind;  but  the  heavens  were  still  starlit,  there 
was  not  a  ray  of  dawn. 

Then  terror  seized  him.  What  if  she  ever  found 
out?  She  was  hysterical  and  emotional;  she  would 
probably  despise  him,  and  never  realize  how  he  had 
acted  for  her  good.  There  would  be  no  knowing  the 
consequences  of  such  a  discovery.  He  had  entirely 
forgotten  that  at  first  he  himself  had  settled  to  tell  her 
the  whole  truth,  when  once  they  were  man  and  wife. 
Then  he  thought  of  Elizabeth,  and  once  again  fear  pos 
sessed  him.  If  the  two  women  should  meet,  it  might 
be  fatal.  It  was  very  strange  that  she  had  not  spoken 
of  their  engagement — what  could  it  mean? 

Then  he  sat  still  for  a  long  time  thinking.  At  last  a 
plan  presented  itself,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the 
more  the  idea  commended  itself. 

Why  not  see  Elizabeth  ?  She  was  still  devoted  to  him. 
It  seemed  almost  incredible,  even  to  him,  but  he  had 
every  evidence  that  she  still  cared.  Why  not  appeal 
to  her  generosity  to  keep  his  secret?  It  might  please 
her  to  know  I  wore  her  locket,  he  thought,  and  no  harm 
will  be  done.  She  is  the  only  real  danger,  and  that  I 

260 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  261 

am  sure  not  wilfully,  but  just  through  indiscretion.  I 
believe  she  is  really  fond  of  Katherine,*  although  she 
evidently  lost  her  temper,  and  spoke  to  her  most  fool 
ishly. 

He  walked  about  the  room  arranging  all  he  meant 
to  say.  It  seemed  not  only  feasible,  but  the  only  way 
out  of  a  tight  place,  and  after  having  arrived  at  that  con 
clusion,  he  lay  down  and  slept. 

The  next  day  he  travelled  with  Katherine  to  London; 
he  had  arranged  to  dine  with  her  in  the  evening. 

"Till  to-night,"  said  Katherine,  as  he  stood  on  the 
platform,  at  her  carriage  door,  "I've  had  a  really  heavenly 
time.  You've  been  an  angel  to  me,  and  I'm  ever  so 
much  better,"  she  added  cheerily.  "I  love  Ilbury;  it's 
a  paradise.  God  bless  you.  Good-bye,"  and  she  waved 
her  hand  and  drove  away. 

Eric  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  her  as  the  car 
riage  drove  off;  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  some  spell 
were  broken,  as  if  with  the  disappearance  of  Katherine 
there  came  an  awakening  from  a  long  and  happy  dream. 
Then  he  called  a  hansom. 

"I'll  drive  straight  to  Marshom  Street,"  he  thought. 
"I'll  not  give  myself  time  to  change  my  mind.  I'll 
nerve  myself,  for  her  sake." 

The  cabman  had  never  heard  of  the  street,  and  de 
murred  at  the  distance,  but  finally  drove  off  far  to  the 
cast.  Through  the  never-ending  drive,  Eric  tried  to 
arrange  first  one  opening  speech,  and  then  another. 
All  seemed  wonderfully  inadequate. 

"I  must  be  tender  wTith  her,"  he  thought,  "and  must 
just  throw  myself  on  her  compassion.  She  will  surely 
understand." 

The  cab  at  last  took  the  turning  that  led  to  Mar 
shom  Street,  and  he  found  himself  at  the  door  of  the 
corner  house.  The  long  spring  day  was  still  light, 


262  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

although  the  afternoon  was  wearing  into  evening.  Martha 
opened  the  door,  and  started  on  seeing  Eric. 

"He's  come  to  tell  her  he  can't  live  without  her,  in 
spite  of  the  pretty  lady  with  all  her  money,"  thought 
Martha  proudly. 

"Yes,  Miss  Maynell  was  having  her  tea.  Would 
he  please  to  step  in?"  And  she  opened  the  parlor  door 
and  announced  him. 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  on  a  low  chair  before  a  little 
tea-table.  The  evening  paper  was  propped  against  a 
jug  in  front  of  her,  as  she  leisurely  ate  and  read.  She 
looked  up,  expecting  to  see  Miss  Osterley  or  Michael, 
or  someone  from  the  district,  and  the  color  came  with 
a  hot  flush  to  her  cheeks,  as  Eric  stood  before  her.  She 
got  up  and  did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down,  but  looked  at  him 
with  her  clear  eyes,  but  with  a  slight  expression  of  con 
tempt  in  the  corners  of  the  mouth. 

"Why  have  you  come?"  she  said.  She  was  de 
termined  to  give  him  no  help. 

As  Eric  stood  there  every  sentence  he  had  carefully 
arranged  vanished  from  his  mind. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said  hesitating,  "to  ask  you  a 
great  favor.  Elizabeth,  I  am  sure  you  won't  deny  it 
to  me,  for  auld  lang  sync's  sake." 

She  was  silent,  and  he  went  on  haltingly: 

"The  fact  is,  I  don't  think  you  half  know  how  awfully 
fond  I  was  of  you,  and  what  a  terrible  thing  it  was  for 
me  when  we  had  to  part;  but  you  see,  it  was  absolutely 
necessary,  wasn't  it,  and  if  one  does  the  right  thing,  or 
the  wise  thing,  it  is  best  in  the  end,  isn't  it?" 

"Is  that  what  you  came  to  tell  me?"  said  Elizabeth 
coldly.  "You  really  might  have  spared  yourself  the 
trouble." 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Eric;  "it's  one  of  the  things, 
but  not  all.  Katherine  tells  me  that  she  came  here  to 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  263 

ask  you  some  silly  questions  about  a  locket  that  you  once 
gave  me,  and  which  I  prized  very  much." 

A  faint  smile  of  pity  flickered  over  Elizabeth's  face. 

"Don't  you  think  you  might  omit  these  details,"  she 
said,  "and  get  to  the  point?" 

"Well,  it  is  a  really  horribly  difficult  situation.  You 
see  I'm  engaged  to  her  now.  After  poor  old  Jack's 
death  she  shut  herself  up,  and  wouldn't  see  a  soul,  and 
got  all  sorts  of  romantic  notions  into  her  head,  and  I 
knew  she  was  going  to  be  miserable  for  life.  Well — 
oh,  it's  a  hateful  story,"  said  Eric,  striking  his  hands 
together.  "They  brought  her  back  poor  old  Jack's 
things,  and  this  locket,  and  then  she  took  an  entirely 
different  turn,  and  resolved  to  be  happy,  and  of  course 
it's  really  meant  everything  to  her,  because  now  she 
looks  forward  to  a  really  good  time  again." 

"I  fail  to  understand  you.  What  had  the  thing  I 
gave  you  to  do  with  Sir  John  Cliffe's  and  his  wife's 
happiness?" 

How  dense  she  is,  thought  Eric;  she  has  no  intuitions. 
Then  he  said: 

"I  always  wore  your  charm.  Indeed,  indeed,  Elizabeth, 
you  were  always  so  near  to  me,  protecting  me  and  helping 
me;  I  always  felt  you  would  keep  me  safe,  and  you  did. 
But  when  I  was  wounded,  I  gave  it  to  Jack  to  bring  back 
to  you,  and  when  I  was  invalided  home,  the  poor  chap 
was  shot,  and  he  had  it  with  him  when  he  was  killed, 
and  it  was  brought  to  her,  with  his  things." 

A  strange  light  came  into  Elizabeth's  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  the  locket  with  my  hair  and  writing 
was  brought  home  to  Lady  Cliffe?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eric,  "and  you  see  how  it  means  every 
thing  to  me,  that  she  should  know  nothing." 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  yet,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  Lady  Cliffe  knows 


264  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

that  it  was  once  mine,  and  she  must,  therefore,  know 
now  I  gave  it  to  you." 

"No,  she  doesn't.  Don't  you  see?  Why  don't  you 
help  me  when  it's  all  so  hard?"  he  said,  almost  im 
patiently.  "She  thinks  it  belonged  to  poor  old  Jack." 

"But  where  do  I  come  in?"  she  asked  again. 

"Why,  she  fancies  you  must  have  given  it  to  him. 
It  can't  mean  much  to  you,  but  it  means  everything  to 
me." 

Elizabeth's  face  became  perfectly  rigid  and  very  white. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  she  said,  "that  in  order  that 
you  may  marry  Lady  Cliffe,  you  want  me  to  let  her 
think  that  I  had  some  low  intrigue  with  her  husband?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Eric  lamely,  "but  that  perhaps  you 
knew  him  before  he  married,  and  you  cared  for  each 
other." 

"And  that  he  continued  to  love  me  after  he  was  married, 
and  that  probably  I  did  too,  and  that  he  died  with  my 
gift  round  his  neck,  and  that  although  she  came  here 
constantly,  I  never  told  her  that  I  knew  him?  My  God! 
What  do  you  take  me  for  ?  For  a  being  as  mean,  and  with 
as  rotten  a  sense  of  honor  as  yourself?" 

"There  are  times  when  untruth  is  almost  right,  in 
order  to  guard  another's  happiness,"  he  said  almost 
pleadingly. 

"Happiness — her  happiness,  to  be  married  to  a  man 
with  a  lie  on  his  lips,  and  a  lie  about  the  dead,  because 
they  can't  rise  up  and  show  how  poor  and  worthless  a 
thing  he  is?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  and 
each  word  fell  clear  and  distinct,  like  a  single  drop  of 
cold  water  on  a  stone,  "that  you  are  going  to  let  her 
think  her  husband  a  blackguard,  and  that  I  am  a  con 
temptible  piece  of  deceit,  in  order  that  she  may  have  the 
happiness  of  marrying  you?  I  can  conceive  no  worse 
fate  befalling  any  woman,  no  more  horrible  awakening. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  265 

Oh,  I  know  you  will  say  the  grapes  are  sour,  that  I  wanted 
to  marry  you  myself,"  she  said,  standing  very  erect,  and 
coming  a  step  nearer  to  him,  "but  I,  who  have  cared  and 
cared  for  you,  will  tell  you  this:  You  filled  all  my  waking 
thoughts,  and  I  thought  I  could  never  have  lived  when 
you  left  me,  but  now  I  thank  God  for  that  day." 

Eric  looked  at  her  as  though  she  had  struck  him. 

"Don't  say  such  things,"  he  said.  "You  will  be 
sorry;  don't  say  anything  we  shall  both  regret." 

"I  regret  nothing;  I  say  it  deliberately,"  said  Elizabeth, 
speaking  quickly  in  a  low  voice.  "I  see  now  why  it  was 
best  I  should  suffer,  and  I  am  thankful.  No,  I  will  not 
lie  to  please  you;  I  will  not  blacken  my  honor  and  an 
honorable  man's  memory,  in  order  to  make  it  possible 
for  you  to  step  into  his  shoes,  but  this  I  will  do  willingly, 
joyfully — I  will  never  see  either  of  you  again.  You  go 
your  ways,  only  let  me  never  know  that  you  exist,  never 
hear  your  name.  I  could  not  bear  to  remember  that 
the  being  lived  so  mean  as  to  take  all  a  woman  had  to 
give,  and  then  to  ask  her  to  stand  under  such  a  charge  in 
order  that  he  might  marry  another  woman.  Now  go," 
she  said. 

"Then  you  will  say  nothing?"  he  murmured,  not 
looking  at  her. 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  want  to  remember  that  I 
ever  knew  you."  And  with  that,  she  opened  the  door, 
and  he,  feeling  as  though  he  wished  he  could  vanish 
under  the  scorn  of  her  look,  passed  out  into  the  street. 
He  almost  ran  against  a  man  who  was  coming  toward 
the  door,  but  he  did  not  turn  to  see  who  it  was. 

The  cab  was  gone.     How  was  he  to  get  back  ? 

"Are  there  any  cabs  ?"  he  said  to  a  child  on  the  pavement. 

"Kebs?"  said  the  boy.  "None  nearer  than  Aldgate. 
There's  the  trams  down  the  road,"  and  he  pointed  in 
the  direction  of  the  great  thoroughfare. 


266  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Presently,  seated  next  to  a  large  Jewess  and  opposite 
another,  he  slowly  jogged  toward  Aldgate. 

"What  'ave  j'er  got  in  j'er  bundle?"  said  one,  as 
she  looked  at  the  horrible  packet  the  other  held. 

"Chicken's  pluck,"  said  the  other,  and  opened  a 
corner  to  show  the  hideous  contents. 

As  Eric  crouched  among  the  dirty  passengers  it  seemed 
to  him  that  his  humiliation  was  complete. 

Michael  recognized  Eric  as  he  walked  out  of  the  house, 
and  he  determined  to  hear  what  had  brought  him  to 
Marshom  Street. 

"What  did  he  come  for?  I  must  ask  you.  I  beg  of 
you  to  tell  me,"  said  Michael,  standing  before  Eliza 
beth,  who  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me;  don't  make  me  say.  I  have 
never  felt  really  humiliated  before.  I  have  never  believed 
that  anyone  could  think  I  was  mean  and  dishonorable. 
Was  Aunt  Harriet  right?  Did  I  let  him  despise  me?" 

"Don't  be  silly,  Betty,"  said  the  man,  with  a  set  look 
in  his  face.  Then  changing  his  tone,  he  said:  "Tell 
me  the  truth.  Let  me  help  you — let  me  share  it  all. 
By  heavens!  what  right  has  that  skunk  to  come  here, 
and  leave  the  poisonous  stink  of  his  beastly  presence 
behind  him?  Oh,  I  know,"  as  she  put  up  a  hand  to 
stop  him,  "I  daresay  you  think  me  unrefined,  but  at 
any  rate  I  am  a  man,  and  not  a  mere  shilly-shallying, 
whining  hound  like  that.  What  is  it,  Elizabeth?  For 
God's  sake  let  me  help  you!  What  has  he  ventured  to 
say?" 

But  the  effort  to  tell  Eric  all  the  indignation  she  felt 
had  been  too  much  for  her  nerves,  and  she  sat  down  and 
sobbed  helplessly. 

Michael  felt  distracted.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  wondered  how  he  could  stay  this  paroxysm  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  267 

crying,  and  finally  came  to  the  wise  conclusion  that  he 
had  better  wait  until  the  force  of  her  grief  was  spent. 

Then  he  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  looking  out  of 
the  window.  Presently  the  sobs  grew  fainter,  and 
Elizabeth  sat  like  a  tired  child,  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
it  was  an  evident  effort,  and  she  almost  gasped  for  breath 
between  her  words. 

"Michael,  dear  old  friend,"  she  said,  "you  will  forgive 
me.  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself,  but — it  has  been  so 
horrible — and  the  awakening  to  what  he  really  is  has 
been  so  hideous." 

He  turned  and  went  to  her  and  took  her  hand.  Little 
by  little  she  grew  calmer,  and,  by  questions  and  answers, 
he  at  last  got  from  her  the  gist  of  the  interview. 

"He  wanted,"  said  Michael  slowly,  "to  allow  Lady 
Cliffe  to  imagine  that  you  had  some  love  affair  with 
her  husband,  in  order  that  she  might  think  badly  of  him, 
and  that  it  might  never  appear  that  Errington  had  been 
engaged  to  you  himself?" 

Elizabeth  nodded ;  she  had  no  voice  to  speak. 

"I  always  thought  badly  of  him,  but  I  could  never 
have  conceived  anything  so  mean.  What  did  you  pro 
mise?" 

"I  said  I  did  not  wish  to  remember  that  he  ever  lived," 
said  Elizabeth  in  a  whisper. 

"But  all  the  same  you  would  remain  under  this  odious 
accusation?  I  could  never  have  imagined  such  real 
villainy,  the  damned  cub!'  said  Michael  almost  under 
his  breath. 

Then  he  said  no  more  about  him,  but  tried  to  com 
fort  Elizabeth.  He  told  her  to  do  as  she  had  said — 
forget  him. 

"After  all,  the  Christian  Scientists  have  one  great 
truth,  and  that  is,  that  the  mind  should  never  be  allowed 
to  think  of  anything  evil  or  ugly.  Try  to  feel  that  you 


268  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

loved  a  beautiful  ideal  whom  you  created;  it  was  not 
this  man.  It  was  all  that  was  great  and  good  and  pure 
in  you  that  gave  him  qualities  which  were  not  his,  but 
your  ideal  must  not  be  destroyed,  you  must  not  let  him 
shatter  it." 

Elizabeth  listened  quietly.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though 
feeling  were  numbed,  as  if  she  had  outspent  emotion,  and 
had  no  more  affection  to  expend  on  anyone. 

"Don't  let  him  spoil  your  life,  Betty.  You  have  so 
many  useful  years  before  you."  And  as  he  said  the 
words,  he  felt  how  prosaic  and  tiresome  they  sounded, 
but  it  was  hard  to  know  how  to  brace  and  comfort  her. 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  foolish,  Michael,"  she  said. 
"Indeed  I  am  not;  only  give  me  time,  just  a  little  time." 

When  Michael  left  Marshom  Street  he  went  to  the 
nearest  post-office,  and  asked  for  a  directory.  Looking 
carefully  through  the  C's,  in  that  section  which  calls 
itself  the  Court  Guide,  he  scribbled  down  a  number  in 
Hill  Street,  Berkeley  Square.  Then  he  went  out  into 
the  street.  He  was  in  no  undecided  mood.  He  knew 
what  he  intended  to  do,  and  had  no  hesitation  whatever 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  plan,  for  it  appeared  to  him  the 
only  straightforward  course. 

:{c  ijc  $  ;|c  »|c 

Katherine  was  sitting  at  her  breakfast  the  morning 
after  her  return  to  London.  Eric  had  dined  with  her 
the  night  before.  He  was  not  well,  she  thought;  he 
had  been  moody  and  sad  all  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening, 
and  had  devoted  all  the  latter  part  to  endeavoring  to  shake 
her  decision  as  to  the  date  of  their  marriage. 

She  had  settled  it  was  not  to  take  place  till  the  autumn ; 
he  prayed  that  it  might  be  in  the  early  summer.  Why 
delay?  It  was  a  mere  conventionality,  He  had  pleaded 
so  well,  that  at  last  she  agreed  to  a  compromise;  she 
would  be  married  in  August.  It  would  be  a  very  quiet 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  269 

wedding;  everybody  would  be  out  of  town.  Besides, 
after  all,  she  thought,  what  does  it  matter  whether  or  no 
I  respect  Jack's  memory?  It  is  all  a  sham.  I  have  no 
real  respect  for  him,  why  should  I  pretend  ? 

Then  Eric  began  to  make  plans  to  occupy  the  time 
between  this  and  August.  Why  not  go  away?  Shut 
up  the  London  house  and  live  between  Lentham  and 
Ilbury?  It  would  be  delicious,  a  quiet  summer  in  the 
heart  of  the  country. 

"No,  Eric,"  she  persisted,  "you  will  get  tired  of  me 
before  the  time.  There  is  a  glare  in  the  country  on 
mind  and  body,  which  shows  up  all  defects.  Let  us 
stay  here  and  see  people,  and  meet  every  day.  There 
are  all  sorts  of  charming  things,  music  and  plays,  which 
we  can  do  together.  We  will  keep  the  country  as  a  luxury, 
not  for  a  steady  diet." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  Eric,  yielding  reluctantly, 
with  a  strong  foreboding  of  ill.  The  summer,  he  knew, 
would  be  a  time  of  constant  anxiety. 

But  Katherine,  calmly  eating  buttered  roll,  and  read 
ing  the  Morning  Post,  was  supremely  unconscious  of  the 
mental  trial  through  which  he  was  passing. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  long  loose  morning  gown,  with 
a  deep  collar  and  soft  and  very  beautiful  lace.  She 
still  wore  black,  and  her  fair  hair  and  white  skin,  with 
its  effect  of  opal  and  gold,  was  enhanced  by  the  sober 
setting. 

Her  maid  was  standing  in  the  room  with  some  hats 
in  her  hand. 

"Lady  Hornden  has  sent  these  for  your  ladyship  to 
see.  She  says  she  thinks  they  are  what  you  want  just 
now,  miladi." 

The  woman  laid  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  words  "just 
now"  which  was  not  lost  on  Katherine.  She  looked  up 
and  said: 


270  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Yes,  I  daresay  she  is  right;  she  is  always  infallible 
about  dress.  Let  me  see." 

The  hats  were  exaggerated,  tortured  and  twisted, 
with  none  of  the  simplicity  of  line  which  is  not  a  question 
of  fashion  but  rather  a  knowledge  of  art.  Katherine 
stood  up  before  the  glass,  and  threw  them  down  one  by 
one. 

"They  are  all  horrible!  Tell  Lady  Hornden  I  could 
not  wear  them.  I  look  like  a  monkey  without  his  organ." 

The  maid  looked  shocked. 

"Give  her  my  love,"  Katherine  corrected  herself, 
"and  say  that  they  really  don't  suit  me;  and  she  would 
think  so,  too,  if  she  saw  them  on." 

The  man-servant  came  in  to  fetch  the  breakfast  tray. 

"Please,  my  lady,  there  is  a  gentleman.  He  says  he 
wants  to  speak  to  your  ladyship  very  perticler." 

"Is  he  a  tradesman,  or  what?"  said  Katherine. 

"Well,  my  lady,  I  reely  couldn't  say.  'E's  dressed 
like  some  sort  of  a  hartist;  looks  to  me  more  like  that 
than  a  gentleman." 

"Oh,  I  expect  it's  the  man  who  is  to  restore  the  pictures 
at  Ilbury.  Yes,  show  him  up,"  said  Katherine.  "  Bundle 
all  those  hats  out,"  she  said  to  the  maid. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened,  and  Michael 
was  shown  into  Katherine's  sitting-room. 

She  looked  at  him  and  thought  at  once  that  he  was 
probably  an  artist.  His  clothes  did  not  appear  to  her 
cut  quite  on  the  common  pattern,  but  he  certainly  was 
a  gentleman. 

"I  think  you  have  come  to  see  me,"  said  Katherine, 
"about  the  Vandycks  at  Ilbury.  Mr.  Errington  is 
coming  later,  but  I  have  the  description  of  the  pictures 
here.  Our  idea  is  to  take  them  out  of  the  frames — 

"No,  I  have  not  come  about  the  pictures,"  said  Michael. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"   said  Katherine,  turning  round 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  271 

from  the  writing-table  where   she  was  hunting  among 
the  papers.     "I  thought — 

She  felt  she  had  made  a  mistake.  What  was  he? 
He  could  not  be  the  surveyor  of  the  Electric  Light  Com 
pany  who  had  to  undertake  the  work  at  Ilbury.  She 
would  hazard  no  more  guesses.  She  wondered  if  she 
ought  to  ask  him  to  sit  down,  but  he  gave  her  no  time. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you,  Lady  Cliffe,  on  a  matter 
which  is  important,  as  it  concerns  the  good  name  of 
someone  who  is  at  present  involved  in  an  unjust  and 
disgraceful  way.  My  name  is  Fane.  I  am  a  neigh 
bor  of  Mr.  Errington's  at  Ilbury,  and  I  should  be  grateful 
if  I  could  have  a  few  moments,  if  you  can  spare  the  time." 

Fane,  Fane —  Where  had  she  heard  the  name? 
Eric  must  have  mentioned  it. 

"  Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Fane,"  she  said  warmly. 

Some  little  trouble  among  the  tenants,  she  thought, 
as  Michael  obeyed  her. 

"I  cannot  well  tell  you  how  hard  it  is  to  me  to  come 
to  you  at  such  a  time,  but  Mr.  Errington  has  given  me 
no  choice.  I  must  defend  a  woman  who  has  no  one 
else  to  do  it." 

She  drew  herself  up  stiffly  and  said : 

"I  don't  understand.  What  woman?"  But  in  her 
heart  she  knew.  She  only  said  the  words  as  one  might 
put  up  a  hand  to  ward  a  blow.  She  felt  intuitively  he 
spoke  of  Elizabeth. 

"I  would  far  rather  have  left  the  explanation  to  Mr. 
Errington,"  said  Michael,  "but  I  can't  trust  him  to  tell 
you  the  details  as  fully  as  I  wish.  You  brought  a  locket 
some  time  ago  to  Miss  Maynell,  and  you  asked  her  if 
it  was  hers,  and  she  told  you  that  she  had  given  it  to  the 
man  to  whom  she  thought  you  knew  it  belonged.  She 
had  no  idea  that  it  had  been  brought  to  you  by  Major 
Guthrie,  or  that  it  had  been  found  in  Sir  John  Cliffe's 


272  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

possession.  She  imagined  you  knew  it  belonged  to  Mr. 
Errington,  and  that  she  had  given  it  to  him  when  they 
were  engaged,  nearly  two  years  ago.  Mr.  Errington 
called  to  inform  her  what  had  happened,  and  to  beg  her 
to  conceal  the  fact  that,  when  he  was  wounded  and  be 
lieved  himself  dying,  he  gave  it  to  Sir  John,  and  asked 
him  to  bring  it  back  to  England." 

Katherine  sat  perfectly  rigid.  She  had  never  moved 
since  Michael  began  to  speak. 

"He  begged  her  not  to  give  him  away,"  he  continued, 
"as  he  said  he  was  going  to  marry  you,  and  that  it  would 
ruin  his  chances  if  the  mistake  was  discovered ;  but  I  de 
termined  you  should  discover  it,  as  I  could  not  allow  Miss 
Maynell  to  bear  such  a  weight  of  calumny.  I  am  very 
sorry  I  have  been  obliged  to  give  you  pain." 

"What  proof  have  you?"  said  Katherine,  still  sit 
ting  motionless. 

"I  knew  of  her  engagement;  everyone  at  Ilbury  knew 
that  he  paid  her  attention.  I  could  get  a  hundred  proofs," 
said  Michael;  "but  if  you  wish  it,  let  me  see  Mr.  Er 
rington  in  your  presence." 

Katherine  was  silent.  What  had  happened?  Where 
was  she?  She  felt  like  a  person  who  had  just  recovered 
from  a  state  of  unconsciousness  produced  by  an  anaesthetic 
— dazed,  undone,  yet  anxious  to  keep  a  strong  hold  upon 
herself  as  her  senses  slowly  returned. 

"Miss  Maynell  never  met  Sir  John  Cliffe  in  her  life," 
said  Michael  doggedly.  He  felt  the  profoundest  pity 
for  this  frail  woman,  but  he  was  determined  to  do  his 
work,  and  clear  Elizabeth.  "But  if  you  doubt  the  facts 
I  can  get  the  duplicate  locket  which  Mr.  Errington  gave 
to  Miss  Maynell.  He  has  perhaps  forgotten  that  she 
possesses  it.  I  should  not  have  known  it,  but  her  old 
nurse  told  me  of  the  fact." 

He  spoke  deliberately,  and  it  seemed  almost  mercilessly. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  273 

"I  shall  not  want  any  evidence,"  said  Katherine. 
She  longed  to  be  alone,  and  Michael  guessed  her  unspoken 
wish. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Cliffe,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  had 
not  had  so  sad  a  task  to  perform.  I  feel  that  it  has 
wounded  you." 

The  tone  was  so  kindly,  and  his  honest  eyes  looked 
down  on  her  so  sorrowfully,  that  her  pride  yielded  to 
the  desire  to  find  help  from  someone  who  was  honest 
and  true,  as  she  instinctively  felt  this  man  to  be. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fane,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  what  it 
is  to  have  everything  shattered  before  your  eyes?  When 
it  first  happened  I  thought  I  could  build  my  life  back 
again,  and  now,  for  the  second  time  I  am  turned  adrift. 
He  has  lied  about  the  defenceless  dead.  Oh,  it  is  horrible, 
horrible!" 

But  the  very  strength  of  the  constraint  she  had  put 
upon  herself  had  made  the  tension  too  great,  and  she 
fell  back  in  a  dead  faint. 

Michael  lifted  her  up  and  put  her  on  the  sofa,  violently 
rang  the  bell,  and  stood  before  her  in  despair.  What 
had  he  heard  should  be  done  ?  He  could  not  remember. 
Ought  her  head  to  be  high  or  low  ?  Surely  water  should 
be  dashed  on  fainting  people.  He  had  read  that.  He 
looked  round  distractedly.  Then  the  servant  came. 

"Lady  Cliffe  has  fainte.d,"  he  said,  "fetch  the  maid." 
And  presently  a  whole  army  of  servants  surrounded 
the  unconscious  woman,  and  Michael  walked  down  the 
stairs. 

In  the  hall  the  two  men  met.  Eric  had  come  to  keep 
an  appointment  with  the  celebrated  picture  restorer. 
All  sorts  of  tradesmen  were  coming  and  going,  so  he 
evinced  no  surprise  at  seeing  a  man  walk  across  the  hall, 
although  the  hour  was  early;  but  as  Michael  turned  to 
pick  up  his  hat  they  stood  face  to  face. 

18 


274  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Eric  almost  lost  his  self-command.  Then,  quickly 
regaining  his  balance,  he  said: 

"How  d'you  do,  Fane?  I  did  not  know  you  were 
in  London."  But  the  extended  hand  was  ignored. 

"I  have  no  acquaintance  with  you,  Mr.  Errington," 
he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say.  When  she  has  recovered,  no  doubt 
Lady  Cliffe  will  tell  you." 

"You  damned  scoundrel,  what  do  you  mean?"  said 
Eric,  losing  his  self-control.  "What  have  you  been 
saying  to  Lady  Cliffe  ?  How  dare  you  come  to  this  house  ?  " 

"Stop  a  moment,"  said  Michael,  standing  still  and 
looking  at  him  with  unflinching  eyes.  "I  have  come 
to  tell  Lady  Cliffe  that  her  husband  was  not  unfaithful, 
that  Miss  Maynell  is  a  perfectly  innocent  woman,  and 
that  you  are  a  blackguard  who  would  betray  the  dead; 
and  now  I  have  done  my  duty." 

He  turned,  crossed  the  hall,  and  was  gone,  and  Eric 
was  left  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"I  AM  absolutely  in  despair,"  said  Lady  Hornden, 
sitting,  four  months  afterward,  in  the  summer  gardens 
at  Lentham.  "I  have  been  really  almost  beside  my 
self  with  anxiety  and  trouble." 

Sir  James  looked  down  on  the  ground,  and  drew 
patterns  on  the  gravel  with  his  stick.  He  murmured 
from  time  to  time  a  few  sympathetic  ejaculations,  as 
Lady  Hornden  grew  more  confidential. 

"There  is  positively  no  one,  dear  friend,"  she  said, 
"I  could  talk  to  as  I  have  talked  to  you.  Men  are  so 
absurdly  matter-of-fact;  they  can't  see  the  hidden  springs, 
under  the  surface  of  life,  which  are  the  real  power,  and 
there  have  been  so  many  causes  at  work  to  produce  all 
this  terrible  trouble.  Of  course,"  she  continued  more 
fluently,  "I  told  Katherine  when  she  first  came  to  tell 
me  she  had  broken  with  Eric,  that  no  one  would  ever 
understand ;  that  she  had  changed  so  often,  the  chameleon 
wasn't  in  it.  Then  she  told  me  some  story  about  a  lock 
of  hair  which  was  brought  home  with  poor  Jack's  things, 
and  it  had  turned  out  that  it  was  some  love  affair  of 
Eric's.  It's  all  very  involved,  but  the  long  and  the  short 
of  the  whole  thing  is,  that  she  has  broken  off  her  engage 
ment,  and  I  warned  her  how  much  people  would  blame 
her;  but  she  is  so  romantic.  I  don't  mind  romance, 
if  people  will  only  do  the  common-sense  thing.  They 
may  talk  as  much  as  they  like,  it  doesn't  hurt  anybody, 
and  it's  really  rather  nice  and  individual.  But  when 
it  comes  to  upsetting  all  your  life  for  some  foolish  fancies, 
I  really  have  no  patience." 

275 


276  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Lady  Cliff e  expects  every  man  to  be  a  sort  of  Sir 
Galahad.  It's  all  very  well,  but  the  world  would  be 
an  infernally  dull  place  if  there  were  no  Lancelots — 
and  others — 

"Of  course  it  would,"  said  Lady  Hornden  eagerly. 
Then  she  changed  her  tone,  and  the  real  trouble  was 
apparent.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  wouldn't  mind 
how  often  Katherine  changed  her  mind  if  she  was  happy 
and  gay  about  it  all,  just  played  a  game  of  battledore 
and  shuttlecock,  which  is  de  son  age,  and  very  natural, 
while  she  is  young.  But  she  is  so  miserable  and  so  ill, 
I  can't  bear  to  see  her.  I  am  going  up  to  consult  a 
specialist  with  her  to-morrow.  She  is  a  skeleton,  and 
pale  and  listless.  She  cares  for  nothing,  but  just  sits  in 
her  room  half  the  day  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  thinking. 
I  try  to  cheer  her  up  and  take  her  out,  but  even  when  she 
goes  to  the  play,  she  doesn't  seem  to  hear  or  see  anything. 
She  won't  leave  London  or  come  here;  she  says  she  wants 
to  be  alone." 

"Oh,  that  will  all  pass,"  said  Sir  James.  "She'll 
get  sick  of  that  sort  of  moated  grange  existence.  By- 
and-by  she'll  cheer  up,  and  really,  my  dear  lady,  she 
could  do  much  better.  Eric  Errington  is,  to  my  mind, 
an  affected  young  ass.  I've  no  patience  with  him,  and 
you  may  be  sure,  apart  from  any  little  histories,  she  has 
grown  sick  of  him.  Women  who  are  in  love  don't  break 
with  men  because  they  learn  there's  been  somebody  in 
the  field  before  them;  not  a  bit  of  it.  She's  just  tired 
of  him.  She'll  come  out  all  right.  Get  her  to  Homburg 
or  Aix-les-Bains,  and  make  her  go  through  a  cure,  then 
she'll  believe  she's  better,  and  will  get  quite  well." 

"You  are  always  so  full  of  wisdom,"  said  Lady  Horn- 
den,  looking  gratefully  at  Sir  James.  "I  daresay  you're 
right;  but  I'm  superstitious.  I  can't  help  it;  it  may 
be  silly,  but  two  things  oppress  me.  Jack,  poor  old  dear, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  277 

who  was  just  a  matter-of-fact  Englishman,  gave  Katherine 
an  opal  engagement  ring;  and  she  broke  her  looking-glass 
the  day  she  was  married.  They  didn't  tell  me  at  the 
time,  but  I  found  it  out  afterward  from  the  housemaid. 
This  has  always  made  me  feel  she  was  somehow  doomed. 

"Oh,  tommy  rot!"  said  Sir  James  unsympatheti- 
cally.  "Lady  Cliffe  has  not  been  really  unfortunate; 
she  has  got  all  her  life  before  her.  She  is  beautiful  and 
rich,  and  she  has  a  delightful  mother."  And  as  he  turned 
and  smiled,  the  wrinkles  deepened  round  his  eyes,  but 
their  expression  was  kindly. 

Lady  Hornden  got  up  with  a  sigh.  She  did  not  appear 
convinced,  and  they  walked  toward  the  house,  where 
she  was  entertaining  a  large  party  or  guests. 

The  next  day  Lady  Hornden  arrived  at  Hill  Street 
in  time  to  meet  Sir  William  Hayward,  the  celebrated 
specialist,  who  had  been  summoned  to  see  Lady  Cliffe. 

Katherine  sat  in  an  arm-chair  in  her  room,  and  her 
mother  paced  about  while  they  were  waiting  for  Mr. 
Graham,  who  had  for  years  been  their  family  doctor, 
to  bring  the  great  man  upstairs.  At  last  steps  sounded 
in  the  passage,  and  the  doctors  were  admitted. 

Mr.  Graham  led  the  way,  and  introduced  his  more 
famous  colleague.  He  was  tall,  a  striking  man,  with 
that  purring  professional  voice  which  is  supposed  to 
have  a  soothing  effect  on  the  patient,  and  inspire  un 
hesitating  confidence.  Then  followed  the  series  of 
questions  and  answers,  known  to  all  who  submit  to  a 
physician's  consultation. 

When  the  main  symptoms  were  reached  Sir  William's 
manner  changed.  He  asked  in  quick  phrases  for  details 
and  dates.  His  look  became  alert,  and  he  appeared 
oblivious  of  the  individuality  of  the  sick  person.  It  was 
the  trail  of  the  disease  he  was  hunting,  and  he  was  lost 
to  all  other  sense.  How  long  had  this  state  of  things 


278  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

existed?  Mr.  Graham  had  only  been  recently  aware  of 
it.  Then  he  questioned  Katherine,  looking  at  her  with 
keen  kind  eyes. 

Lady  Hornden  tried  to  put  in  an  occasional  word, 
but  he  attached  little  importance  to  her  interpolations. 
It  was  the  patient  who  absorbed  his  thought. 

At  last  he  turned  to  Mr.  Graham,  and  said: 

"Well,  I  think  you  and  I  must  have  a  little  talk." 

Katherine  remembered  the  hundreds  of  times  he 
must  have  repeated  this  sentence,  and  wondered  how 
often  he  had  said  it  with  the  knowledge  of  his  own  help 
lessness. 

When  they  were  gone  Lady  Hornden  became  more 
restless. 

"Of  course  he  may  be  a  great  man,  but  he  is  not  in 
fallible.  If  I  am  not  satisfied  I  shall  call  in  Lambert. 
He  is  magnificent,  they  say;  upsets  everybody's  theories, 
and  cures  so  many  people  that  the  other  doctors  hate 
him.  I  think  this  man  has  too  much  a  sort  of  bottled 
all-wisdom  appearance,  to  impress  me.  I,  as  your 
mother,  must  know  about  you  better  than  anyone,  but  he 
would  hardly  let  me  speak." 

Katherine  sat  listlessly  in  her  chair. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "I  will  see  anyone  you  like, 
if  they  don't  rout  me  out,  and  drive  me  hither  and  thither 
in  search  of  the  unattainable;  I  am  content,  only  I  want 
to  be  left  alone.  But  remember,  mama,"  she  said, 
gathering  strength  as  she  spoke,  "remember  I  mean  to 
hear  the  truth.  I  am  not  going  to  be  put  off  with  all 
sorts  of  nonsense,  as  though  I  were  a  cowardly  child. 
I  want  to  know  how  things  really  are  with  me.  You 
promise  me,  for  I  will  know.  I  am  ill,  I  think;  I  feel  ill. 
It  may  be  nothing,  but  I  wish  to  be  told  everything  there 
is  to  know." 

By-and-by   both   doctors  returned.     Sir  William  had 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  279 

resumed  his  first  manner.  He  took  a  chair  and  held 
his  hands  together,  and  in  a  slow,  sweet,  pompous  voice, 
he  began  to  explain  to  her  that  he  quite  hoped  to  be  able 
to  gather  strength  back. 

"You  are  weak;  you  want  watching,  and  rest,  and 
feeding." 

Katherinc  listened,  but  said  no  word. 

Sir  William  strung  sentences  together  which  appeared 
to  mean  very  little. 

"You  will  go  into  the  country,"  he  continued.  He 
hesitated. 

Lady  Hornden  was  standing  beside  Katherine,  and 
said  decidedly: 

"Her  own  home,  of  course;  it  is  always  open  to  her. 
Where  better  than  to  her  mother?" 

"Exactly.  That  would  be  the  very  thing.  To  your 
mother's  country  place,"  and  the  doctor  turned  again  to 
Katherine,  "and  then  you  will  have  rest,  and  a  simple 
treatment  which  I  have  arranged  with  Dr.  Graham,  to 
be  given  by  one  of  our  nurses,  and  then  I  hope,  with  time 
and  care,  we  shall  do  wonders  for  you — wonders;  only 
you  must  be  patient,  and  give  yourself  up  to  rest  and 
nursing."  He  turned  to  Mr.  Graham  and  then  to  Lady 
Cliffe.  "You  have  been  admirably  treated  hitherto 
by  my  friend  here,  who  will  watch  you  and  report  to  me. 
Good-bye,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand  with  a  little  curved 
swoop,  which  seemed  to  hint  at  a  benediction,  and  then, 
turning  to  Lady  Hornden:  "I  should  like  a  word  as 
to  details  of  treatment  with  your  ladyship."  Another 
smile  and  he  was  gone. 

Mr.  Graham  remained  a  moment  to  bend  over  Kath 
erine  in  his  most  irritating  way,  and  said : 

"He  has  nothing  but  good  to  prophesy.  We  are 
going  to  make  a  splendid  cure." 

"Is   that   all   he   said?"    Katherine   looked   at   him 


28o  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

with  large  searching  eyes.  "You  know  I  have  told 
you  before,  I  don't  care.  I  only  want  to  know  how 
I  really  am." 

The  cross-examination  to  which  Lady  Hornden  was 
subjected  on  her  return  was  severe. 

"What  does  he  say  is  the  matter  with  me?"  asked 
Katherine. 

"Oh,  general  weakness,"  said  Lady  Hornden  vaguely. 

"Nonsense,  mama;  that  does  not  account  for  it," 
and  she  named  the  special  symptoms  which  had  arrested 
the  doctor's  attention. 

"He  is  certain  that  it  does,"  said  Lady  Hornden 
decisively.  "He  says  weakness  may  produce  anything, 
everybody  knows  it  can." 

"When  shall  I  be  well?"   said  Katherine. 

"Oh,  my  beautiful,  darling  child,  you  will  be  well 
soon,  only  you  must  do  every  single  thing  he  says,  and 
then  he  is  to  sec  you  again.  I  am  just  going  to  fetch 
Marguerite,  I  want  to  see  her  before  she  goes  out  shop 
ping,"  and  she  almost  ran  from  the  room. 

"They  are  deceiving  me,  but  I  will  know,"  thought 
Katherine,  as  she  lay  back  in  her  chair. 

%  5fc:  ^  %  ;fc 

Eric  sat  in  the  club  window.  He  looked  out  on  the 
cabs  and  omnibuses  and  motors  and  carriages,  and  on 
the  people  walking  on  the  pavements,  but  it  was  to 
him  as  a  vain  show.  He  saw  none  of  them.  Over  and 
over  again  he  had  been  wondering  how  best  he  could 
act.  Katherine's  note  was  in  his  pocket. 

"Please  do  not  come  to  me,"  she  wrote,  "I  would 
rather  not  see  you.  I  know  the  truth.  I  do  not  want 
to  characterize  your  action  other  than  to  say  that  my 
ideas  of  confidence  and  of  honor  differ  so  widely  from 
your  own,  that  it  will  be  best  we  should  part.  I  have 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  281 

no  other  word  to  add,  except,  that  the  suffering  I  must 
endure  arises,  I  know,  partly  from  my  own  folly  in  the 
past,  and  on  that  score  the  blame  is  not  wholly  yours. 

"K.ATHERINE   CLIFFE. 

"P.S. — If  these  words  appear  to  you  hard,  you  must 
remember  that  there  is  nothing  so  bitter  as  to  be  deceived." 

He  had  written  at  least  twenty  answers,  and  had 
destroyed  them  all.  None  were  to  his  mind  satisfactory. 
Directly  he  tried  to  explain  the  situation,  the  incident 
looked  more  regrettable.  When  he  wrote  of  penitence, 
the  words  seemed  unreal  and  strained.  The  only  strong 
thing,  he  decided,  was  to  be  silent.  There  is  a  wonderful 
power  in  silence,  he  argued.  The  very  uncertainty  will 
keep  me  in  her  mind,  and  who  knowrs  that  she  may  not 
think  better  of  this  absurdly  strained  situation,  and 
come  back  to  real  life  and  take  things  as  she  finds  them. 

He  was  genuinely  distressed.  Never  had  he  so  nearly 
approached  a  sincere  love  as  during  these  last  months. 
There  was  something  so  appealing  in  that  fragile  figure, 
so  delicate  and  dependent,  and  then  of  course  there 
was  so  much  besides.  Life  would  have  been  so  easy, 
so  delightful.  He  would  have  had  such  scope  for  his 
taste  and  his  talent.  He  was  envied  by  everybody.  He 
was  the  lucky  man  who  had  drawn  a  big  prize.  And 
now — confound  it!  How  hard  it  is  on  a  fellow — just 
one  false  step.  It  seems  too  heavy  a  punishment.  And 
he  puffed  his  cigarette  and  clenched  the  arm  of  the  chair, 
as  if  he  were  in  bodily  pain. 

What  had  he  better  do?  He  could  not  loaf  about 
London;  he  must  make  some  plans.  But  this  con 
sideration  was  interrupted  by  a  voice  behind  him  saying: 

"Hullo  Eric,  old  boy!  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you. 
You've  had  horrible  luck.  I  hear  she's  broken  off  her 
engagement.  Poor  old  chap!"  And  a  small,  well- 


282  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

groomed  man  sat  down  astride  on  a  chair,  in  front  of 
him.  No  one  else  was  in  the  room,  so  the  greeting  caused 
him  no  embarrassment. 

The  speaker  was  Lord  Munro.  When  she  first  came 
out,  he  had  himself  admired  Katherine,  and  had  hoped 
to  rebuild  the  fortunes  of  his  impoverished  house  with 
her  fortune.  But  apart  from  this  sordid  motive,  he  had 
a  really  sincere  admiration  for  her  beauty  and  charm, 
and  had  retained  her  friendship. 

"It's  deuced  hard  luck,"  he  said  again. 

"Yes,  it  is,  only  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  not 
sure  I  take  it  as  final.  She  is  a  little  changeable,  and 
some  officious  fool  told  her  a  pack  of  stories,  which  she 
swallowed  wholesale,"  said  Eric.  "  But,  still,  I'm  terribly 
cut  up  and  the  uncertainty  is  horrible." 

"Her  mother  told  me  she  was  awfully  ill,"  said  the 
other  man.  "They've  had  a  perfect  bevy  of  doctors 
to  see  her,  and  she  does  not  get  any  better.  Poor  Lady 
Hornden  is  half  beside  herself." 

Eric  sat  up  in  his  chair. 

"I  hadn't  heard  she  was  really  ill."  He  looked  white 
and  worried.  "After  all,"  he  thought,  "perhaps  she 
is  fretting  at  the  break.  It  may  be  a  good  thing.  I 
fancy  my  not  writing  was  rather  a  stroke."  But  out 
loud  he  said:  "Do  go  round  by-and-by  and  enquire. 
You  see,  I  can't,  although  I  am  half  mad  with  anxiety. 
I  wish  you'd  tell  Lady  Hornden  you  have  seen  me.  It 
is  so  hard  to  be  shut  out,  and  get  no  news.  My  dear 
fellow,  I  tell  you  it's  breaking  me  up,"  and  he  got  up, 
and  for  the  moment  he  was  so  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  his  words  that  his  face  looked  drawn  and  wizened. 

The  other  man  was  genuinely  sorry  for  him. 

"I  can't  bear  it  much  longer,"  Eric  went  on.  "I  shall 
go  to  America  in  the  autumn — anywhere,  anywhere 
to  get  away." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  283 

"I'll  be  sure  to  tell  her.  She's  a  really  kind  sort, 
a  bit  silly,  but  good  stuff,"  said  Lord  Munro.  "Don't 
get  ill  yourself.  I  daresay  you're  right,  and  that  things 
will  all  come  round.  Lady  Cliffe  was  always  a  little 
exaggerated  in  her  views.  Nobody  can  afford  to  take 
romantic  ideas  in  this  every-day,  jog-trot  world.  Got  to 
take  things  as  we  find  'em,"  he  said,  with  a  cigarette 
between  his  teeth,  in  the  intervals  of  lighting  it.  "  Don't 
go  to  America,  it's  a  horrible  place,  no  sport  and  nothing 
to  do.  Where  shall  you  hunt  next  winter?  I've  got 
awfully  cosy  little  quarters,  and  a  ripping  stable  near 
Uppingham.  I  wish  you'd  go  in  with  me.  I've  got 
three  spare  loose  boxes." 

And  then  the  conversation  drifted  on  to  horses  and 
hounds,  and  the  usual  hunting  talk,  which  is  only  of 
interest  to  the  sportsman. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LIFE  was  very  monotonous  to  Katherine,  as  she  lay 
on  the  sofa  in  her  sitting-room  at  Lentham.  She  rose 
late,  had  her  luncheon  on  the  tray,  walked  as  far  as 
the  garden  attended  by  her  nurse,  or  sat  in  her  chair 
on  the  terrace,  then  returned  to  her  sofa  till  dinner. 

"I  might  be  eighty-five,"  she  said  to  her  mother  with 
a  sorrowful  little  smile,  "and  yet  you  tell  me  every  day 
that  I  am  getting  better." 

"So  you  are,  my  darling,"  reiterated  Lady  Hornden; 
but  the  tone  in  which  she  said  it  was  not  convincing. 
"What  you  need  is  rousing,  you  mope  far  too  much.  I 
am  hoping  that  a  little  brightness  may  come  to  you  when 
Anne  arrives,  and  a  few  others  who  will  be  here  next 
week." 

"Are  there  people  coming?"  said  Katherine  des 
pairingly.  "I  am  so  sorry.  I  want  to  be  quiet;  I  am 
so  often  in  pain,  and  always  in  discomfort.  Until  I  am 
better,  don't  ask  me  to  see  anyone." 

"My  sweet  child,  you  are  morbid,"  said  Lady  Horn- 
den.  "You  are  not  yourself.  It  is  quite  unnatural 
that  you  should  shut  yourself  up.  After  all,  even  if  you 
are  not  well,  you  can  be  charmingly  dressed.  A  soft 
tea-gown  with  plenty  of  lace,  or  one  of  Doucet's  saut  de 
lit,  is  just  as  pretty  as  any  gown.  Indeed,  illness  is 
quite  interesting,  if  it  is  not  disfiguring.  It  will  be  a  joy 
to  them  to  see  you,  and  my  crushed  flower  will  lift  up  her 
head,  more  beautiful  than  any  of  them,"  and  she  made 
a  brave  show  of  mirth. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  clothes,"  said  Katherine,  clasping  her 

284 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  285 

hands  together,  and  looking  out  beyond  her  mother. 
"The  fact  is,  the  people  don't  interest  me;  I  don't  want 
to  see  them.  I  don't  care  to  hear  them  talk;  it's  always 
the  same  thing,  and  it's  deadly  dull  and  commonplace. 
Well,  perhaps  I  don't  know  what  I  want,"  said  Katherine, 
as  she  saw  her  mother  look  pained  and  puzzled.  "I 
daresay  it  will  be  all  right,  only  I  am  so  tired,  and  I  can't 
find  rest  anywhere." 

When  her  mother  left  her,  she  lay  back  and  closed 
her  eyes.  She  saw  a  wide  sweep  of  country,  fading 
away  into  the  long  streaks  of  blue,  a  broad  field  and  a 
narrow  path,  and  she  heard  again  the  cracked  voice 
of  an  old  woman  saying: 

"They're  a-carlin'  of  us,  they're  a-carlin'." 

"I  wonder  if  they  are?"  she  thought. 

By-and-by,  when  the  expected  guests  came  to  Lentham, 
even  Lady  Hornden  saw  that  it  was  too  much  for  Kath 
erine.  She  became  more  restless  and  nervous,  and  her 
nurse  was  disturbed.  She  was  "losing  ground,"  she 
said. 

Dr.  Graham  was  summoned  from  London,  and  it 
was  finally  arranged  that  sea  air  would  be  the  best  restora 
tive,  and  that  Katherine  was  to  go  away,  accompanied 
only  by  her  nurse. 

A  large  cottage  was  taken  on  the  east  coast  of  Kent, 
and  Katherine,  with  a  retinue  of  servants,  began  that 
search  for  health  which  takes  us  over  such  weary  and 
often  unending  ways. 

She  had  not  seen  Elizabeth  since  her  interview  with 
Michael,  neither  had  she  written.  It  seemed  to  her 
impossible  to  re-open  the  question.  She  had  bitterly 
repented  her  hasty  judgment,  and  had  again  and  again 
called  out  into  the  silence,  to  beg  Jack's  forgiveness, 
but  no  assurance  came  in  answer  to  her  appeal.  But 
although  the  tide  of  her  love  and  respect  for  him  had 


286  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

swept  back  over  her  life,  she  still  felt  a  resentment  toward 
Elizabeth  which  she  could  not  overcome.  She  had 
caused  her,  unintentionally,  she  admitted,  untold  suffering. 
Why  had  she  not  frankly  told  her  of  her  engagement  to 
Eric?  she  unreasonably  argued.  It  would  have  saved 
all  misunderstanding. 

It  was  unjust,  she  almost  admitted  to  herself,  to  extend 
no  forgiveness  to  Elizabeth,  but  the  thought  that  she 
had  not  always  held,  as  she  imagined,  supreme  sway 
over  Eric,  annoyed  her.  She  had  always  believed  that 
the  romance  of  his  life  centred  in  her,  and  with  the  sen 
sitiveness  of  those  who  possess  other  than  personal  at 
tractions,  she  began  to  think  that  possibly  her  fortune 
had  played  a  larger  part  in  his  desire  to  marry  her  than 
in  reality  it  had.  She  still  felt  a  mistrust  of  Elizabeth's 
sincerity,  and  consequently  a  bitter  dislike  to  the  interests 
with  which  she  had  surrounded  herself.  Michael  had 
seemed  to  her  straightforward,  but  he  only  sought  to 
vindicate  Elizabeth;  she  had  occupied  the  position  of 
importance  in  his  mind,  and  although  he  had  been  sorry 
for  her  own  pain,  it  was  a  necessary  evil  he  had  inflicted, 
in  order  to  gain  her  justification. 

She  thought  constantly  of  Eric,  and  of  the  long  days 
they  had  spent  together,  and  although  her  heart  had 
resumed  allegiance  to  her  unseen  love,  her  soul  cried 
out  for  the  expression  of  it  which  she  had  found  with 
Eric,  for  the  sense  of  protection  which  his  presence  gave 
her,  for  the  spoken  word  and  the  warm,  living  touch. 
Then  she  remembered  how  he  had  deceived  her.  She 
would  spell  over  in  memory  every  word  that  bore  on  his 
misrepresentation  of  Jack,  and  it  seemed  to  Katherine 
as  though  she  loathed  the  very  love  for  which  she  craved. 
The  silence  he  had  maintained  had  troubled  her.  She 
had  sent  him  one  short  note,  immediately  after  she  re 
covered  strength  enough  to  write,  after  her  interview 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  287 

with  Michael  Fane.  But  since  that  day  never  by  word 
or  by  letter  had  he  sought  to  change  her  decision,  or  to 
justify  his  conduct. 

Perhaps  he  was  wise.  What  was  there  to  say?  But 
still,  she  would  have  preferred  to  have  had  some  recogni 
tion  or  remonstrance.  It  was  like  throwing  a  letter  out 
into  the  dark.  She  would  even  have  been  glad  to  hear 
that  he  was  angry,  if  only  she  could  hear  something. 
But  it  was  like  Eric;  he  was  always  complicated  and 
mysterious. 

Then  she  turned  once  more  to  the  thought  of  Jack. 
She  remembered  that  during  the  short  year  they  were 
together,  the  honest  expression  of  his  love  had  some 
times  bored  her;  but  now  she  realized  that  in  spite  of 
this,  she  trusted  in  him  implicitly  and  believed  in  him, 
and  there  was  the  solid  rock  which  is  the  foundation 
of  all  lasting  love. 

The  thousand  ways  in  which  he  had  shown  his  de 
votion  to  her  came  to  mind,  little  acts,  unnoticed  at  the 
time,  but  full  of  that  deference  which  a  strong  man 
feels  for  the  woman  who  gives  herself  into  his  care.  She 
longed  passionately  to  picture  him  in  that  strange  region 
beyond.  Had  he  carried  his  love  for  her  yonder?  Had 
he  forgiven  her?  It  almost  seemed  to  her  that  now 
and  then  she  caught  some  glimpse  of  the  way  out  of  the 
haunted  chamber  of  memory,  into  those  wide  places 
where  dreams  mingle  with  reality,  and  time  and  eternity 
arc  one,  as  she  lay  in  the  little  garden  in  the  cool  of  the 
summer  evening,  listening  to  the  hiss  of  the  returning 
tide. 

By  degrees  the  invigorating  air  brought  to  Katherine 
some  fresh  strength,  and  with  it  came  a  greater  interest 
in  her  surroundings.  At  first  the  presence  of  the  nurse 
was  a  comfort,  and  it  was  a  rest  to  leave  herself  in  her 
hands;  but  when  she  had  thoroughly  established  an 


288  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

invalid  routine,  the  thraldom  began  to  be  unspeakably 
irksome.  She  had,  however,  no  other  companionship, 
and  she  became  the  only  human  interest. 

During  the  tedious  process  of  daily  electric  massage 
Katherine  would  listen  to  her  talk  with  a  mixture  of 
weariness  and  amusement,  and  would  question  her 
about  her  life  and  her  hospital  experience.  Then  she 
would  try  and  extract  her  opinion  as  to  her  own  progress  to 
ward  health ;  but  here  she  came  on  a  professional  bedrock. 

"Am  I  better,  nurse?"  she  would  say,  after  the  daily 
weighing.  "Have  I  gained  anything?" 

"We  can  never  tell  our  patients;  we  are  never  allowed 
to  give  particulars,"  said  the  nurse  mysteriously. 

"But  you  can  tell  me  what  you  think,"  said  Katherine 
peevishly.  "It's  absolutely  ridiculous." 

"You  mustn't  think  at  all,  my  lady,"  she  would  answer. 
"You  have  been  a  very  good  patient  up  to  now.  You 
must  ask  Dr.  Graham  next  time  he  comes." 

"What  did  Dr.  Graham  tell  you  was  the  matter  with 
me?"  queried  Katherine. 

"He  told  me  just  what  he  told  you." 

"Oh,  that  is  nonsense,"  she  replied  impatiently. 
"That  does  not  account  for  the  symptoms  you  are  watch 
ing.  He  only  said  it  was  weakness,  and  that  I  should 
grow  stronger." 

"That  was  just  what  he  told  me,"  said  the  girl  dip 
lomatically. 

Katherine  looked  suspicious  and  said  no  more,  but 
the  nurse,  although  reticent  about  Katherine's  ailments, 
was  certainly  not  reserved  about  her  own  experiences. 
The  "cases"  she  had  attended  were  minutely  described; 
the  triumphs  she  had  achieved  over  disease,  the  recoveries 
which  were  the  direct  result  of  her  care,  were  all  told  in 
detail.  Her  "gentlemen  patients"  appeared  to  be  the 
most  interesting  charge. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  289 

"I  have  never  had  any  trouble  with  them,"  she  said, 
as  she  kneaded  Katherine.  "They  are  lovely  to  me." 
And  a  little  reminiscent  smile  played  round  her  mouth. 
"Sir  William,  for  whom  I  have  nursed  a  lot,  said,  'You're 
the  very  nurse  for  gentlemen;  I  would  trust  the  most 
difficult  case  to  your  care  and  tact.'" 

"Aren't  they  impatient  and  troublesome  sometimes?" 
Katherine  questioned. 

"Oh  dear  no;  not  after  the  first.  I  have  sometimes 
a  good  bit  of  bother  with  the  wives;  they  want  to  be 
fussing  in  and  out,  but  I  won't  have  it.  After  opera 
tion  cases  I  keep  them  out  altogether." 

"Don't  the  husbands  ask  for  them?"  said  Katherine. 

"Not  after  a  bit,"  said  the  little  nurse. 

She  was  young  and  rather  good-looking,  and  Katherine 
pictured  the  wives  frenzied  with  anxiety  and  jealousy, 
haunting  the  ante-chambers  guarded  by  this  relentless 
little  siren. 

"You  see,  we  get  a  good  deal  behind  the  scenes.  Gentle 
men  have  often  thanked  me  for  allowing  no  one  to  come 
to  them.  Very  often  the  wife  worries  them,  and  they  can't 
tell  her  so.  We  see  rather  amusing  things  sometimes." 

"Rather  squalid,  I  should  think,"  said  Katherine. 

"Oh,  not  now,"  said  the  nurse.  "I've  given  up  all 
district  work,  since  I  finished  my  training.  I  never 
nurse  anyone  but  people  of  good  family." 

"That  would  not  prevent  it,"  said  Katherine;  but 
she  did  not  trouble  to  explain  to  her  that  she  felt  there 
was  just  as  much  squalor  among  rich  people,  as  poor, 
and  that  it  is  not  only  outward  dirt  which  makes  things 
squalid. 

At  other  times  she  would  ask  her  minutely  about 
her  hospital  life,  about  the  out-patients  and  the  sick. 

"  Do  the  doctors  tell  poor  people  the  truth  ?  "  Katherine 
questioned. 


2Qo  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Not  always,"  said  the  nurse,  "it  depends.  If  they 
really  want  to  know,  because  they  ought  to,  then  of 
course  they  tell  them,  but  not  otherwise.  Still,  they 
are  more  open  with  them  than  with  private  patients, 
no  doubt." 

Katherine  made  her  describe  again  and  again  with 
the  utmost  minuteness  all  the  details  of  the  hospital 
routine. 

"Now  tell  me  from  the  beginning,"  she  would  say. 
"A  woman  comes  with  a  letter — what  is  it  you  call  it? 
Yes,  an  out-patient's  letter,  and  she  has  to  sit  hours  and 
hours." 

Then  the  nurse  would  explain  the  hospital  regula 
tions,  and  she  would  question  and  cross-question  her 
on  every  detail.  Sometimes  the  nurse  wondered  at 
her  great  eagerness,  but  finally  settled  that  she  perhaps 
intended  to  leave  money  to  the  charity,  or  build  a  new 
ward,  and  so  she  took  pains  to  give  her  all  the  information 
she  demanded. 

The  nurse  prided  herself  that  she  could  generally 
"place"  her  patients,  but  Katherine  completely  mystified 
her.  She  was  young,  she  was  rich,  and  she  was  beautiful. 
She  possessed  more  expensive  clothes  than  any  she  had 
ever  seen.  Every  wish  that  she  expressed  was  gratified, 
and  yet  she  seemed  to  care  for  nothing.  It  was  certainly 
a  bad  sign,  and  the  woman  wondered  why  she  showed 
no  desire  to  see  her  friends.  The  loss  of  her  husband 
might  account  for  this  apathy.  Her  grief  might  have 
shattered  her,  for  the  disease  from  which  she  was  suffering 
would  not  yet  have  so  undermined  her  strength  as  to 
hinder  her  desire  for  change  and  enjoyment.  But  she 
had  never  spoken  of  her  grief,  or  behaved  in  the  manner 
bereaved  people  invariably  did,  according  to  her  ex 
perience.  It  was  very  odd,  she  would  say  to  herself; 
and  a  feeling  of  profound  pity  almost  akin  to  contempt 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  291 

possessed  her,  when  she  thought  how  little  use  this  woman 
made  of  the  good  things  of  life  which  were  scattered 
round  her  in  such  profusion. 

The  object  of  her  pity  was,  however,  supremely  un 
conscious.  Katherine  was  low-spirited  and  nervous. 
The  future  had  for  her  no  charm;  the  past  seemed  to  be 
a  series  of  mistakes.  She  held  the  threads  of  life  with 
tired  fingers,  and  had  no  energy  to  disentangle  the  skein. 

$  &  $  #  # 

August  is  a  deadly  month  in  the  slums.  While  other 
children  scamper  over  the  heather  or  paddle  by  the  sea, 
the  children  in  the  court  sit  on  the  baking  steps,  leaning 
weary  heads  against  the  door,  too  tired  or  too  ill  to  play. 
Many  a  child  drops  out  of  the  ranks  before'  the  spell  of 
heat  is  over. 

Elizabeth  longed  for  change  and  country,  but  decided 
to  remain  in  Marshom  Street  until  late  in  the  autumn. 
She  felt  she  could  not  leave  the  children,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  one  place  was  the  same  as  another.  She  too 
had  little  desire  for  enjoyment,  besides  which  she  had 
many  cases  of  illness  in  the  district,  and  the  work  was 
heavy. 

Billy  had  returned.  He  was  mysterious  as  to  where 
he  had  spent  his  time.  His  hair  was  clipped  close  to  his 
skull,  and  his  ears  stood  out  like  handles.  His  shirt  and 
waistcoat  were  sizes  too  small  for  him  now.  "They 
fits  me  too  soon,"  he  explained  to  Elizabeth;  and  his 
trousers  ended  in  a  fringe. 

He  had  got  some  work  at  a  greengrocer's,  and  with 
all  the  deficiencies  of  his  attire  hidden  under  a  long 
and  dirty  apron,  he  scrubbed  the  doorsteps  of  the  little 
shop  at  the  corner  of  the  court,  unpacked  the  hampers 
of  cauliflowers  and  cabbages,  and  carried  boxes  of  bananas, 
with  an  air  of  solemn  importance. 

Sally  used  to  hover  round  the  shop,  but  Billy,  with 


292  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

true  professional  instinct,  took  no  notice  of  her  until 
work  was  over.  He  was  only  employed  in  the  morn 
ings,  so  in  the  afternoons  they  would  go  off  together 
to  the  "burying  ground";  there  were  trees  there  and 
little  patches  of  grass,  and  they  used  to  sit  and  listen 
to  the  stories  told  by  the  other  children,  of  their  experi 
ences  in  the  country.  Many  of  them  had  been  away 
for  a  fortnight,  and  brought  back  glowing  tales  of  the 
flowers  to  be  had  for  the  picking,  of  the  fields  "where 
yer  could  tumble  'ead  over  'eels  withaout  no  bloomin' 
copper  chasm'  yer,"  of  the  "sneaky  green  grass  wot 
nipped  yer  bare  legs,"  while  the  brother  and  sister  sat 
and  drank  in  every  word. 

Elizabeth,  mindful  of  the  boy's  disappointment,  and 
the  tragic  sequel,  had  promised  that  if  possible  she  would 
try  and  get  them  away,  but  there  were  many  sick,  and 
their  turn  had  not  come  before  the  funds  were  exhausted. 
One  never  to  be  forgotten  day,  however,  she  had  given 
them  sixpence,  and  they  went  for  a  ride  on  the  tram  as 
far  as  Leytonstone.  Then  they  got  out  and  walked 
along  the  road  toward  the  forest.  They  could  not  go 
very  far,  but  they  had  seen  trees  and  grass,  and  "little 
white  flowers  wot  grew  among  it,"  and  Mr.  Green  had 
given  them  some  rotten  fruit  instead  of  throwing  it  away; 
so  they  sat  down  and  had  a  splendid  time  "a-eatin'  of 
them  plums  and  bernardos,"  as  Sally  afterward  described 
it. 

But  the  weather  grew  hotter,  and  Sally  fell  sick.  Billy 
did  all  he  could  for  her.  He  used  to  take  her  every  day 
to  the  "buryin'  ground"  and  put  her  under  a  tree.  She 
was  too  ill  to  eat,  but  she  enjoyed  the  cold  water  from  the 
drinking  fountain,  and  she  lay  there  until  he  came  to  fetch 
her  in  the  evening  when  the  cemetery  was  closed. 

Elizabeth  heard  of  Sally's  illness  from  Billy,  when 
he  was  taking  down  the  shutters  early  one  morning, 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  293 

and  she  hastened  off  to  find  Sally  under  her  tree.  She 
sat  down  beside  her.  The  child  was  very  white.  She 
took  the  bit  of  cake  of  Elizabeth  brought  her,  and  tried 
to  eat  it  in  order  to  please  her,  but  it  was  an  effort.  Her 
head  ached  badly,  and  Elizabeth  asked  her  about  her 
nights. 

"We've  slep'  out,  Billy  an'  me,  most  'o  nights.  Mover's 
bin  boozed,  an'  took  the  key  wif  'er,  so  we  couldn't  git  in. 
Oh  no,  we  likes  it,"  in  answer  to  Elizabeth's  question 
as  to  whether  the  doorstep  was  not  very  hard.  "Billy 
lies  on  'is  back,  and  'e  looks  at  the  stars,  'e  does,  a  big 
'un  and  two  little  'uns,  and  'e  says  the  little  'uns  winks 
at  'im,  but  the  big  'un  just  looks  clear  at  'im,  it  does. 
Worst  on  it  is,  mofer  comes  back  boozed,  an'  last  night 
when  she  seed  us  she  kicked  Billy,  and  she  'it  me,  an' 
she  siys  as  it  was  a  disgrice  to  'er,  us  slcepin'  outside; 
an'  Billy  an'  me  cried  out,  an'  Mrs.  Jones  she  put  'er 
'ead  out  of  the  winder,  and  she  asted  mofer  ef  she  warn't 
fit  ter  look  artcr  'er  children,  she  did,  and  she  called  'er 
nimes.  And  mofer  in  course  she  turned,  and  we  'ad  a 
job  tcr  keep  'er  from  goin'  at  'er.  'Wicked,  meddlin' 
ole  cat,'  she  said  she'd  tear  ivry  'air  out  of  'er  'ead." 

Sally  repeated  the  every-day  occurrence  in  a  quiet, 
matter-of-fact  voice. 

"Oh,  Billy,  'e  is  good  ter  me,"  she  said,  as  Elizabeth 
changed  the  subject.  "'E's  right  down  good  ter  me. 
Iver  since  bibydied,  Vs  bin  that  kind,  'e  'as." 

Then  Elizabeth  tried  to  draw  her  thoughts  away  from 
the  court,  and  the  dirt,  and  the  drink.  She  told  her 
about  fields,  and  birds,  and  flowers,  and  how  next  year 
she  hoped  to  get  her  away. 

Sally  listened.  Her  face  was  small  and  very  white. 
She  had  an  old,  worn,  anxious  look,  and  there  were 
some  wrinkles  already  round  her  dark  eyes.  Her  gown, 
if  it  could  be  dignified  by  such  a  name,  consisted  of  a 


294  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

torn  and  sleeveless  bodice,  and  a  skirt  which  draggled  at 
her  heels;  a  rusty  black  cape  stretched  across  her  narrow 
shoulders,  succeeded  in  covering  her  arms  to  her  elbows, 
and  a  shapeless  pair  of  boots,  which  belonged  to  her 
mother,  covered  her  feet. 

She  sat  there,  so  sad  a  little  figure,  that  Elizabeth's 
heart  went  out  to  her  with  infinite  pity.  What  could 
this  life  hold  for  her?  she  thought.  So  she  began  talk 
ing  to  her  about  the  world  where  it  was  always  country, 
which  nobody  had  spoiled. 

"Ain't  no  pine  there?"  said  Sally,  looking  up  sharply. 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth,  "and  nobody's  ever  drunk 
there  or  naughty." 

"Nobody's  boozed?  Why,  wo'  goes  ter  the  public 
'ouse?"  she  asked.  "Ain't  none?"  she  questioned. 
"Why,  that's  funny!" 

Then  Elizabeth  talked  of  the  great  Painbearer  who 
understood  all  about  her  weakness.  Sally  listened, 
but  there  was  a  doubting  expression  on  her  face.  Then 
they  fell  to  talking  about  the  graves  and  the  great  mystery 
of  death. 

"Is  they  all  'appy?"  asked  Sally.  "Is  they  all 
a-livin'?" 

"Yes,  they're  happy,"  said  Elizabeth,  "or  else  they're 
learning  more  lessons  which  will  teach  them  how  to  be 
happy." 

Again  Sally  looked  doubtful. 

"The  old  woman  as  mide  me  puddings  when  I  was 
bad  told  me  as  God  burned  bad  people  to  red  'ot  cinders." 
She  looked  up  as  though  she  had  caught  Elizabeth  this 
time.  "  She  says  as  'ow  ef  yer  tells  lies  yer  gets  burned  up." 

Elizabeth  tried  to  improve  Sally's  theology,  but  seeing 
that  her  statements  were  taken  with  some  measure  of 
reserve,  she  began  "reading  the  writing"  with  Sally  on 
the  different  tombstones. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  295 

"This  is  the  one  I  loikes,"  said  Sally,  pointing  with 
her  thin  dirty  little  hand,  as  she  read  aloud  in  a  slow, 
nasal  voice: 

"Who  best  can  drink  'ce's  cup  of  waoe 
Triumfat  over  pyne, 
Who  pashunt  bears  'ee's  cross  belaow, 
'E  follows  in  'ee's  tryne." 

Elizabeth's  eyes  were  dim.  "The  steep  ascent  to 
heaven"  seemed  to  her  a  toiling  journey,  but  this  frail 
little  figure  had  a  harder  path  to  travel.  Perhaps  it  will 
be  shorter,  she  thought,  as  she  kissed  the  pale  thin  cheek, 
and  told  her  she  would  come  again. 

"Mind  yer  do,"  said  Sally  smiling. 

On  her  way  home  Elizabeth  saw  Michael  coming 
toward  Marshom  Street.  She  had  seen  a  great  deal 
of  him  lately.  He  had  been  in  and  out  more  than  usual. 
He  had,  however,  told  her  nothing  at  all  about  his  inter 
view  with  Katherine,  but  he  said  casually  one  day  that 
he  had  heard  that  her  engagement  with  Eric  was  broken, 
and  Elizabeth  imagined  that  after  all  perhaps  Eric  had 
the  grace  to  tell  her  the  truth,  but  her  hero  worship  was 
ended.  She  had  seen  Eric  in  a  new  and  very  different 
light,  and  she  mourned  only  the  loss  of  an  ideal  which 
she  now  recognized  had  no  relation  to  reality.  But  still 
her  heart  was  sore.  Her  very  mistake  brought  with  it 
a  sense  of  humiliation,  although  she  tried  resolutely  to 
turn  to  her  work,  and  had  already  begun  to  plan  for  the 
coming  winter  with  renewed  energy.  Her  dream  was 
over,  she  told  herself.  She  could,  therefore,  no  longer 
afford  to  be  drowsy.  Life  must  be  lived,  and  realities 
faced,  but  the  world  seemed  very  gray.  Still,  there  were 
moments  when  she  recognized  that  the  awakening  was 
good.  She  knew  that  it  was  inevitable,  but  it  might 
have  come  too  late,  and  she  allowed  herself  no  illusions 
as  to  Eric's  character. 


296  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Elizabeth  wondered  why  she  did  not  hear  from  Kathe- 
rine.  Surely  she  owed  her  some  word  to  tell  her  of  her 
mistake.  She  resented  the  silence  at  first,  and  then  she 
heard  of  her  illness  through  Lady  Augusta,  and  was  filled 
with  pity  and  a  real  desire  to  be  allowed  to  comfort  her. 

Michael  looked  worried  and  anxious  as  he  stopped 
in  the  entrance  of  the  court  to  speak  to  her,  and  in  his 
hand  he  held  a  telegram. 

"I  have  had  bad  news.  Mother  is  ill,"  he  said,  "and 
I  am  off  to  Ilbury  by  the  next  train." 

"  How  ill  ?  "  said  Elizabeth  quickly.     "  Not  seriously  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  so.  The  telegram  is  from  Dr. 
Hood,  and  he  asks  me  to  come  to  her.  She  must  be 
very  ill,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  trembled  a  little,  "not  to 
send  herself." 

"How  soon  is  your  train?" 

"Now,  at  once.  I  am  just  going  to  Liverpool  Street. 
Betty,  if  she  wants  you,  you  will  come,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  any  moment,"  said  Elizabeth.  "Only  do 
send  at  once  if  I  can  help  her." 

"Shall  I  take  a  message?"  he  said,  still  lingering. 

"Tell  her,  Michael,  how  I  love  her.  That  is  the 
only  message  worth  taking  to  anyone." 

"  God  knows  you're  right,"  said  Michael,  as  he  turned 
to  go. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

As  autumn  advanced  the  October  wind  was  often  too 
boisterous  for  Katherine  to  sit  in  her  garden  with  comfort. 

"Only  the  very  young  and  the  very  prosperous  like 
wind,"  she  said,  as  the  awning  of  her  little  wooden  shelter 
filled  and  flapped  with  a  strong  gust. 

"Then  I  am  sure,  my  lady,  you  ought  to  like  it," 
said  the  nurse. 

The  remark  was  intended  to  please,  but  Katherine, 
wrapped  in  furs,  with  her  face  as  white  as  the  ermine 
of  her  cloak,  laughed  a  little  bitterly,  and  said : 

"The  number  of  our  years  doesn't  make  us  young, 
and  prosperity  doesn't  mean  money.  Haven't  you 
learnt  that?" 

But  the  woman  thought  it  best  to  keep  to  generali 
zations,  and  said : 

"Call  me  if  you're  cold,  please,  as  you  must  not  get 
a  chill,"  and,  putting  her  book  down  by  her  side,  she 
left  her. 

Katherine  looked  out  over  the  expanse  of  sea  where 
long  green  lights  were  stretching  across  the  dark  gray 
water.  The  wind  bowed  the  heads  of  the  dahlias  and 
michaelmas  daisies  almost  to  breaking  point.  The 
little  stunted  trees  shook  beneath  it,  bent  and  dwarfed 
by  their  battles  with  this  strong  enemy.  The  seagulls 
were  screaming  and  darting  down  to  the  waves,  then  as 
they  reached  the  water  they  sank  upon  it,  quietly  swim 
ming  as  though  rocked  by  a  careful  hand.  The  great 
sea  heeded  not  the  wind.  The  infinite  strength  of  the 

297 


298  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

waters  struck  her  afresh.  The  wind  battered  only  the 
weak  things,  but  strength  gave  calm. 

When  she  looked  back  on  her  life,  during  this  time 
of  leisure,  everything  seemed  dwarfed  and  puny.  She 
longed  for  things  that  were  big  and  enduring. 

"I  shall  make  new  interests,"  she  thought,  "solid 
things  that  won't  fail,  if— 

How  strange  that  word  had  lately  come  into  her  life. 
Formerly  she  had  just  settled  what  she  meant  to  do,  or 
be.  Was  there,  then,  something  so  strong  that,  like  the 
sea,  it  could  resist  the  currents  of  our  will,  she  wondered. 

On  the  following  day  Dr.  Graham  came  from  London 
to  see  her.  His  visits  were  a  source  of  aggravation  to 
Katherine.  The  whispered  talks  in  the  adjoining  room 
with  the  nurse,  and  the  futile  accounts  she  afterward 
gave  of  the  conversation,  annoyed  her  almost  past  bearing. 

This  time,  however,  after  the  usual  mysterious  con 
sultation,  he  returned  to  her,  and  taking  a  chair  he  bent 
toward  her,  and  said : 

"I  hope  you  will  believe  implicitly  wrhat  I  am  going 
to  say.  You  are  better,  decidedly  better.  Your  strength 
has  gained,  and  your  general  condition  much  improved, 
but  I  should  like  you  to  see  Sir  William  again.  I  don't 
want  the  responsibility  of  your  winter  plans,  and  I  should 
be  glad  if  you  would  authorize  me  to  ask  him  to  come. 
Moreover,  we  may  have  to  consider  whether  we  can  help 
you  before  you  go  abroad." 

"Why  don't  you  talk  English?"  said  Katherine  in 
a  hard,  dry  voice.  "Why  don't  you  say  outright  that 
you  may  operate?  I  know  just  what  you  are  thinking; 
I  am  no  fool  and  no  coward." 

''My  dear  Lady  Cliffe,  you  are  one  of  the  very  best 
patients —  but  Katherine  interrupted  the  coming 
compliment. 

"I  shall,  of  course,  arrange  to  see  Sir  William,  but 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  299 

not  here.  I  shall  go  to  London.  You  say  I  am  stronger, 
so  I  can  easily  bear  the  journey,  and  I  prefer  it." 

The  nurse,  who  was  standing  in  the  room,  shook 
her  head,  and  Katherine,  looking  at  her,  and  then  at 
the  doctor,  said : 

"I  mean  to  go,  so  that  ends  it." 

Three  days  later,  Katherine  found  herself  in  Hill 
Street.  The  house  looked  deserted,  but  the  library 
on  the  ground  floor  had  been  hastily  arranged,  and 
flowers  from  Lentham  made  the  room  cheerful. 

On  the  following  day  after  her  arrival  the  consul 
tation  was  held.  Sir  William  brought  with  him  another 
celebrated  specialist,  and  the  three  doctors  examined 
and  cross-examined  the  patient,  giving  no  hint  as  to 
their  opinion,  and  finally  retired  for  their  conference. 

The  excitement  and  pleasure  of  the  nurse  was  an 
added  annoyance  to  Katherine.  Lady  Hornden  had 
come  to  London  in  order  to  be  present,  and  endeavored 
while  they  were  waiting  to  get  out  of  her  all  the  information 
that  she  could. 

What  did  she  think  the  doctors  would  say  ? 

She  could  not  tell.  She  did  not  know,  and  even  if 
she  had  her  own  opinion,  she  was  not  at  liberty  to  say 
it. 

"Has  she  gained  any  weight?"  asked  her  mother. 

"Well,  yes,  perhaps  a  little,  I  think,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  Katherine.  "We  have  gained  two  pounds,  but  we 
have  been  very  good.  Sir  William  ought  to  give  us  a 
medal  for  perseverance,"  she  continued,  but  the  dreary 
little  joke  did  not  make  her  patient  smile.  It  gave  Kathe 
rine  a  very  real  pleasure,  however,  when,  on  his  return, 
Sir  William  said  somewhat  curtly:  "You  can  go,  nurse," 
and  sat  down  by  her. 

"Well,  dear  lady,"  he  began,  "you  are  doing  well. 
We  should  like  you  to  go  on  just  the  same,  to  persevere. 


300  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

We  don't  want  to  interfere  with  nature.  Lady  •  Cliffe 
has  gained  strength" — he  said,  turning  to  Lady  Hornden 
— "gained  strength,"  he  repeated  absently,  still  looking 
at  Katherine. 

"Well,  that  is  a  great  deal  in  her  favor,  is  it  not?" 

"De — cidedly;   decidedly,"  he  repeated. 

But  Katherine  was  not  satisfied. 

"Why  can't  you  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  with  me, 
if  you  know  it,"  she  added,  "or  are  you  in  the  dark?" 

Sir  William  paused,  put  his  hands  together,  looked 
up  at  the  ceiling,  and  then,  without  meeting  her  eyes, 
said: 

"It  would  be  really  almost  impossible.  These  attacks 
of  neuritis  are  so  difficult  to  diagnose.  The  final  recovery 
depends  on  general  health.  We  must  maintain  that. 
You  have  youth  on  your  side,  and  a  desire  to  get  well, 
and  I  believe  that  is  the  real  secret  of  recuperation.  By- 
and-by,  perhaps,  we  may  make  searching  analysis,  but 
there  is  nothing  to  cause  you  anxiety.  Keep  a  quiet 
mind  and  you  will  get  strong." 

He  still  did  not  look  at  her,  and  as  she  turned  quickly 
to  her  mother,  it  appeared  to  her  that  she  looked  grave 
and  rigid  and,  after  shaking  hands,  Sir  William  left  the 
room  with  Lady  Hornden. 

In  the  afternoon  Katherine  \vas  resting,  lying  on 
the  sofa  in  the  library.  The  nurse  had  gone  for  her 
afternoon  walk.  It  was  part  of  the  hospital  rules  that 
she  should  have  fresh  air  during  the  day.  Lady  Horn 
den  was  not  expected  till  dinner-time,  and  it  was  only 
four  o'clock.  She  got  up  and  rang  the  bell,  and  when 
the  servant  came,  sent  for  the  housekeeper. 

"What  servants  came  up  from  the  cottage,  Blunt?" 
she  said  to  the  curtesying  woman  in  black  silk. 

"The  chef,  my  lady,  and  two  'ousemaids  and  one 
kitchenmaid,  and  the  menservants." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  301 

"Did  the  other  kitchen  girl  stay  behind?" 

"Yes,  my  lady,  she  did.  I  got  a  charwoman  in  to 
help  in  the  scullery." 

"Who  is  she?"  questioned  Katherine,  to  the  sur 
prise  of  Mrs.  Blunt. 

"She's  a  person  as  was  recommended  to  me  by  Lady 
Augusta's  'ousekeeper.  She  comes  from  the  East  End, 
I  believe,  but  reely  I  don't  know,  I  never  asked  her. 
She's  a  very  good  woman  to  work." 

"Tell  her  I  want  to  speak  to  her,"  said  Katherine. 

The  housekeeper  looked  dumb  with  surprise.  "A 
char  to  go  to  the  librey!"  It  seemed  impossible,  but 
"when  people  is  ill  they  takes  all  sorts  of  fancies,"  she 
thought,  as  she  descended  the  stairs  to  the  kitchen. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  a  stout  woman  with  a  shiny 
face,  round  and  motherly,  was  standing  before  Katherine. 
She  folded  her  red  swollen  hands  on  her  apron,  and  looked 
at  her. 

"There  sat  the  lidy  all  dressed  in  lice  with  the  beautiful- 
lest  'air  yer  ever  see,  but  I  knew  as  she  was  hill,  very  hill," 
she  said,  as  she  described  the  interview  on  her  return 
home. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  name  is,"  said  Katherine, 
sitting  up  on  the  sofa. 

"Mrs.  Etherington,"  said  the  woman. 

"Do  you  come  from  the  East  End?" 

"Yes,  yer  lidyship." 

"What  do  you  get  for  your  work  here?" 

"Three  shillin's  a  diy  and  me  food,  yer  lidyship." 

"Have  you  children?" 

"Yes,  I've  five  little  children,  all  a-goin'  to  school, 
an'  my  por  'usband  'e  carn't  do  no  work,  'e's  bin  bad 
this  three  year,  a-goin'  to  the  'orspital  once  a  week,  an' 
the  stuff  as  they  give  'im  ain't  a-done  'im  no  good,  but 
then  they  telled  'im  so,  they  did.  'We  can't  do  nothin' 


302  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

for  yer,'  they  says;  an'  ter-day  I  left  'im  awful  bad,  and 
'e  cawfed  that  bad  as  I  thought  to  see  'is  lungs  lay  on 
the  floor,  I  did,  yer  lidyship.  It's  the  truf,  every  word  as 
they  said  about  'im." 

"Did  they  tell  him  the  truth  at  the  hospital?"  said 
Katherine;  and  a  slight  color  came  into  her  face. 

"They  did,  yer  lidyship.  They  said  as  'ow  none 
but  the  Almighty  could  'elp  'im." 

"Look  here,  Mrs.— 

"  Etherington,"  said  the  charwoman,  as  Katherine 
hesitated. 

"I  will  give  you  five  pounds  if  you  will  do  just  as  I 
tell  you.  Please  bring  me  to-morrow  a  bonnet,  not 
your  best,  and  a  cloak  or  a  shawl,  and  a  pair  of  boots; 
but  if  you  tell  anybody  in  the  house  I  shall  not  give  you 
the  money.  I  want  to  send  a  woman  to  the  hospital, 
and  she  has  nothing  to  wear." 

"She  can't  be  right  in  'er  'ead!"  thought  the  woman, 
eyeing  Katherine;  but  the  thought  of  five  pounds  made 
it  worth  while  to  humor  a  lunatic. 

She  quickly  passed  her  scanty  wardrobe  in  review. 
Her  dolman  with  the  beads  had  been  deposited  in  pawn 
some  time  back,  at  the  corner  shop.  She  could  borrow 
a  bit  to  get  it  out.  Her  bonnet  wasn't  up  to  much,  but 
she'd  clean  it  to-night,  and  as  to  her  boots,  well,  Mrs. 
Davey  as  "lived  above  'er  was  an  obliging  body,  she 
would  'elp  'er  for  a  shillin' "  she  felt  sure.  So  she  promptly 
replied  that  everything  should  be  ready. 

"Put  it  in  a  brown  paper  parcel  and  tie  it  up,  and  leave 
it  on  the  hall  table." 

"Yes,  yer  lidyship,"  said  the  woman.  "I'll  put  it  in 
the  'all  directly  I've  cleared  the  breakfast." 

Katherine  looked  puzzled. 

"I  don't  have  breakfast  in  the  hall." 

"No,  yer  lidyship,  but  the  servants  does." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  303 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Katherine.  "No,  I  mean  the  front 
hall  here,  not  the  servants'  hall.  Ring  the  front  door 
bell  and  put  it  there." 

"I  'ope  as  you'll  explain,  yer  lidyship,  ter  Mrs.  Blunt 
as  I  took  no  liberty.  I  shouldn't  like  for  to  lose  my 
bit  o'  work." 

"I'll  take  care  of  that,"  said  Katherine. 

The  next  morning  Katherine  stood  ready  dressed  to 
go  out  at  eleven  o'clock. 

"I  shall  want  that  in  the  brougham,"  she  said  to  the 
servant,  pointing  to  a  rather  bulgy-looking  brown  paper 
parcel  on  the  hall  table. 

The  footman  lifted  it  gingerly  and  placed  it  in  the 
carriage. 

"I  shall  not  want  the  nurse.  Tell  her  to  go  out.  I 
may  be  late  coming  back,"  she  added. 

The  man  waited  for  orders   at  the  brougham  door. 

"Go  toward  the  City,  I  can't  remember  the  address," 
she  said;  and  the  horses'  heads  turned  eastwards. 

When  she  got  to  Aldgate  Station  she  stopped  the 
carriage,  told  the  coachman  to  wait,  and  called  a  cab. 

An  hour  later  a  tall  figure  with  a  rusty  black  mantle 
and  a  black  velvet  bonnet,  on  which  quivered  a  shabby 
jet  ornament,  a  plain  black  skirt,  some  worn  and  shape 
less  boots,  and  a  pair  of  clean,  well-made  gloves,  took 
her  place  among  the  out-patients  of  the  great  hospital. 

The  room  was  nearly  full.  The  people  sat  on  hard 
benches,  grouped  under  the  printed  names  of  the  various 
doctors  who  were  to  see  them.  She  would  be  called 
when  her  turn  came,  the  porter  explained,  when  she 
presented  her  letter. 

Katherine  crouched  down,  fearful  of  even  raising 
her  head.  Her  heart  beat  very  quickly;  she  had  never 
felt  so  alone  in  her  life  as  in  this  dreary  crowd. 

By-and-by  she  began  to  take  an  interest  in  the  people 


304  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

round  her — pale  anaemic  faces,  with  the  desparing  look 
of  those  haunted  by  the  knowledge  that,  if  health  failed, 
their  one  asset  in  life  was  gone.  Hunger  and  ill-health 
had  brought  many  of  the  impotent  folk  to  this  modern 
Bethesda;  drink  and  debauch  had  sent  others;  disease 
and  age  had  added  their  list.  Many  little  children  were 
among  the  waiting  crowd.  Some  toddled  in  and  out 
of  the  benches,  lifting  up  grimy  faces,  and  smiling  at  the 
sorrow-laden  strangers;  children  with  heads  bandaged, 
telling  of  burns  or  bruises,  with  bent  legs  or  wasted  frames ; 
tiny  babies  as  white  as  wax,  in  their  mothers'  arms,  who 
cried  unceasingly  as  the  hours  went  on. 

"There,  deary,  don't  yer  cry;-  you  shall  'ave  it  by- 
and-by,"  said  a  woman  with  a  baby  wrapped  in  a  dirty, 
tattered  shawl.  "She  likes  'er  little  sip,  and  misses  it, 
she  do.  I  lets  'er  finish  the  glast,  I  does,  it  mikes  'er 
sleep  a  bit,"  she  said,  with  some  pride  to  her  neighbor 
on  the  bench,  as  she  patted  the  yelling  child. 

A  murmur  of  voices  filled  the  room,  as  in  low  tones 
the  sick  people  were  telling  each  other  of  their  different 
diseases,  or  explaining  the  peculiar  illness  of  the  relation 
they  had  brought. 

Katherine  sat  quite  silent.  Never  had  she  felt  the 
horror  of  physical  suffering  to  be  so  unbearable.  The 
sisters  in  their  pretty  dresses  and  clean  aprons,  with 
streaming  ends  to  their  caps,  flitted  in  and  out ;  occasion 
ally  they  stopped  and  noticed  a  child,  and  asked  the 
mother  about  its  age,  but  their  cheerful  interest  is  only 
surface,  thought  Katherine;  how  can  they  care,  when 
they  meet  this  army  of  suffering  every  day.  The  doctors 
in  white  linen  coats  came  in  and  out  of  the  consulting- 
rooms,  and  spoke  to  each  other  or  to  the  sisters  on  the 
business  of  the  morning. 

The  hours  dragged  on.  Two  o'clock  had  struck, 
and  still  she  had  not  been  called.  Katherine  felt  in- 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  305 

exprcssibly  weary  and  faint.  She  tried  to  gain  courage 
by  the  thought  that  if  she  were  really  told  that  nothing 
serious  was  the  matter,  she  could  go  back  to  the  world 
and  do  some  real  good.  She  must  help  these  people, 
she  thought,  as  she  looked  round  on  them,  as  they  sat 
there  waiting  in  hopes  that  their  burden  of  suffering  might 
be  taken  from  them.  The  sadness  and  horror  of  the 
picture  were  not  lost  upon  her,  and  her  vivid  imagination 
rilled  up  the  blanks. 

"It's  a  long  time  ter  wite,"  said  a  pale-faced  man 
sitting  opposite  to  her  across  the  narrow  gangway  which 
divided  men  from  women.  "I've  bin  'ere  since  ten  this 
morning.  No,  I've  got  no  work;  I  kep'  on  as  long  as 
I  could,  and  then  I  'ad  to  give  in.  The  wife  she  went 
aout  washing,  and  lucky  she  was  ter  get  it,"  and  a  hollow 
cough  wrhich  shook  the  bench  on  which  he  sat,  interrupted 
him.  "I've  bin  in  'ere  for  a  month,  but  they  couldn't 
keep  me  no  longer;  said  there  wasn't  no  'ope;  but  I 
come  'ere  to-diy  ter  try  an'  get  a  drop  o'  medicine  for 
ter  mike  me  sleep,  I'm  that  bad,"  and  he  coughed  again. 

"Yes,  it's  a  awful  time  ter  wite,"  said  the  woman 
next  to  her.  "I'm  a-comin'  in,  I  think.  I've  got  to  see 
the  doctor  to  get  a  horder.  They  hoperate,  they  siy, 
on  me  next  week,"  and  she  sniffed  and  wiped  her  nose 
on  her  shawl.  "It's  very  'ard,  I  'as  foar  little  'uns,  and 
my  eldest  girl  as  minds  them's  only  ight.  My  'usband 
works  at  the  brewery,  but  'e  don't  git  much  wiges." 

Katherine  listened.  The  walls  of  this  house  of  pain 
were  closing  round  her.  She  seemed  stifled  by  the  sorrow 
which  was  in  the  very  air.  At  last  a  sister  came  to  her, 
took  her  paper  and  read  it,  and  then  led  her  into  a  room 
divided  int6  two  cubicles. 

A  young  doctor  was  standing  leaning  against  a  high- 
back  chair,  intelligent  and  alert.  He  asked  Katherine 
some  questions  in  a  short  brisk  way.  She  answered 


3o6  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

in  a  few  words,  telling  him  the  symptoms  as  briefly  as 
she  could.  He  asked  her  to  step  behind  a  screened 
partition  and  to  remove  her  dress.  When  the  beautiful 
silk  underclothes  were  revealed  under  the  dirty  dolman, 
he  looked  across  at  the  sister  with  a  meaning  glance,  and 
she  nodded. 

He  put  more  questions,  and  finally  said : 

"Dr.  White  is  going  his  rounds  now.  You  can  see 
him  before  you  go.  I  should  specially  like  to  pass  you 
on  to  him;  you  must  stay  a  little  longer." 

Then  she  wrapped  her  cape  round  her,  and  went 
back  again  to  her  dreary  watch,  sitting  with  the  group 
who  were  to  see  this  specialist. 

Another  hour,  and  both  doctors  were  making  minute 
examination,  speaking  quickly  in  low  tones  to  each  other. 

"That  is  all,"  said  the  junior  doctor  to  Katherine. 
"We  will  give  you  some  tonic  medicine." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  exact  truth,"  said  Kathe 
rine,  standing  very  upright  and  pale,  with  her  delicate 
features  and  fair  curly  hair  surmounted  by  the  ugly 
black  bonnet.  "I  must  know;  the  welfare  of  other 
people  depends  upon  it — indeed,  everything  depends 
upon  it." 

"Who  can  she  be?"  thought  the  elder  man.  "She 
is  not  a  working  woman;  her  hands  are  delicate  and 
white.  She  has  shabby  clothes  but  beautiful  linen. 
What  does  it  mean?"  he  wondered.  "Could  she  be 
among  the  richer  ranks  of  London's  sorrowful  army?" 
He  could  see  no  trace  of  such  a  career  in  her  clear  eyes 
and  refined  face.  But  many  more  were  waiting,  and  he 
could  not  stay  to  think. 

"Can  I  get  well?"  she  asked,  and  stood  there  like 
a  prisoner  awaiting  sentence.  But  there  was  to  be 
no  reprieve. 

"We  fear  not.       The  disease  is  diffused,  malignant 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  307 

and  advanced.  We  could  do  little  good  by  operating. 
But  you  will  not  suffer  pain." 

"How  long?" 

"Oh,  that  must  depend  on  how  strength  is  main 
tained."  The  voice  was  kind. 

"But — forgive  me — under  favorable  circumstances, 
do  you  think  a  year?" 

"Perhaps,  yes,  possibly  a  year." 

Out  in  the  broad  street  the  cab  was  waiting.  Her 
own  cloak  and  hat  lay  on  the  seat,  and  a  pair  of  pretty 
French  shoes. 

"Back  to  Aldgate  Station,"  she  said,  as  she  shut  the 
door,  and  mechanically  took  off  the  worn  clothes. 

The  sun  was  shining,  and  the  great  hay-carts  were 
rumbling  slowly  behind  the  tram-cars.  The  people  were 
moving  east  and  west,  a  constant  stream  of  life. 

A  year — a  year,  she  thought,  as  she  watched  the  living 
panorama.  She  felt  numb.  It  seemed  to  her  that,  after 
all,  no  great  change  had  come  to  her,  except  that  now 
nothing  mattered;  she  need  not  trouble  about  plans,  for 
nothing  now  was  worth  a  thought. 

But  as  she  drew  near  Aldgate  and  paid  the  cabby,  and 
got  into  her  carriage,  the  very  familiarity  of  her  own  inti 
mate  surroundings,  her  cardcase  and  notebook,  the  paper 
she  had  read  in  the  morning,  made  her  realize  the  real 
force  of  the  news  she  had  heard.  She  took  the  looking- 
glass  out  of  the  case  in  front  of  her,  and  looked  at  her  face. 
Somehow  it  appeared  to  her  as  though  she  had  never  seen 
herself  before.  She  looked  with  curiosity  at  the  large 
bright  eyes  which  met  her,  the  perfect  oval  of  cheek  and 
chin,  the  transparent  skin  with  its  almost  waxy  texture, 
and  the  soft  fluffy  hair  which  moved  a  little  in  the  draught 
from  the  open  window. 

A  year — and  nobody  would  see  it  any  more;  it  would 
all  be  hidden  away,  shrunken,  horrible,  loathsome  to  look 


3o8  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

upon.  She  put  up  her  hand  and  touched  her  cheek.  It 
seemed  incredible.  Where  would  she  be — Katherine — 
who  was  so  real  ?  And  she  tried  to  set  her  ideas  in  order. 

Another  life.  The  thought  had  always  been  perfectly 
vague — something  to  do  with  angels  and  golden  thrones. 
Fra  Angelico's  beautiful  "Paradise"  came  to  her  mind. 
A  copy  hung  in  her  bedroom — happy  winged  beings  danc 
ing  with  joyous  monks,  whose  days  of  penance  ended, 
were  revelling  in  the  gure  delights  of  the  new  Eden.  It 
was  a  charming  piece  of  naive  art,  but  it  had  no  appeal  to 
her;  it  brought  no  sense  of  reality.  If  that  was  heaven, 
she  had  no  desire  for  such  happiness.  Perhaps,  then, 
there  was  no  future.  She  wondered.  Jack  had  never 
answered  her  when  she  called  to  him.  All  had  been  a 
blank  silence.  The  idea  of  passing  to  nothingness  did  not 
seem  to  terrify  her,  only  she  was  filled  with  an  infinite 
pity  for  herself,  that  she  should  so  soon  leave  a  world 
that  had  given  her  such  a  capacity  for  happiness,  and 
snatched  it  away  so  soon. 

She  thought  of  the  days  she  had  lived  only  a  year  ago, 
of  the  sunshine,  the  sweep  of  the  keen  air,  the  strange 
sense  of  completeness  which  filled  those  hours  when  Eric 
was  beside  her,  and  they  rushed  on  and  on  through  the 
peaceful  land,  content  to  be  thus  side  by  side  in  the  lovely 
country  world.  Poor  Eric!  Resentment  seemed  to  have 
died  on  the  hospital  steps.  What  a  pity  he  should  have  so 
spoiled  his  soul  and  hurt  his  honor  for  such  a  fleeting 
thing  as  her  short  life. 

Her  tears  were  falling  now.  After  all,  she  thought,  it  is 
perhaps  just  as  well  as  it  is;  he  would  have  been  even 
more  unhappy  if  we  had  married.  And  a  sense  of  utter 
desolation  swept  over  her  with  the  knowledge  that  no 
human  hand  could  help  her,  that  she  stood  on  the  thresh 
old  of  that  gate  which  leads  to  the  Unknown,  through 
which  each  must  pass  alone. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  309 

They  were  driving  through  the  City  now,  and  the  gray 
walls  of  London's  great  cathedral  rose  before  her.  Flying 
pigeons  swept  across  the  grim  stone  buttresses,  and  were 
lost  in  the  mysterious  shade  which  wrapped  the  angles. 
Great  and  still  amid  the  roar  and  movement  it  stood,  the 
monument  of  things  immutable. 

She  pressed  the  little  button  which  bade  the  coachman 
stop,  and  when  the  servant  opened  the  door,  with  slow 
steps  she  ascended  the  long  stone  stair,  pushed  open  the 
heavy  door,  and  stood  for  a  moment  filled  by  the  sense  of 
space  and  calm.  She  looked  down  the  broad  aisle  to  the 
dim  chancel  where  the  shadows  hung  like  blue  draperies. 
The  sense  of  vastness  began  to  disappear  as  the  building 
became  more  familiar,  and  finally  she  was  aware  of  a 
growing  feeling  that  this  too  seemed  dwarfed  and  puny,  in 
comparison  with  the  immeasurable  space  toward  which 
she  was  hastening,  and  again  a  sense  of  desolate  awe  pos 
sessed  her.  Involuntarily  her  mind  clung  to  the  one  being 
familiar  to  her,  who  was  perhaps  out  beyond  space,  and, 
as  she  walked  up  the  aisle  and  sank  into  a  chair,  her  heart 
cried  out: 

"Oh,  Jack,  help  me,  do  help  me!"  How  long  she  sat 
almost  immovable  she  did  not  know.  Here  and  there 
other  figures  were  dotted  about,  little  black  specks  under 
the  vast  dome.  An  old  man  with  bowed  head  was  at  her 
right.  How  still  he  is !  she  thought ;  but  when  she  looked 
again  she  saw  he  was  asleep.  A  few  chairs  from  her  own 
a  woman  sat,  a  heavy  middle-aged  face  with  many  lines, 
and  coarse  gray  hair  drawn  tight  under  her  bonnet.  She 
turned  round  for  a  moment  when  Katherine  came  in,  and 
then  looked  again  straight  before  her,  dull-eyed  and  care 
worn. 

Presently  a  stream  of  light  fell  from  an  upper  window 
across  the  sanctuary,  and  the  shadows  lifted  as  though 
drawn  by  unseen  hands,  and  for  one  moment  the  sunlight 


3io  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

lit  the  figure  of  the  Christ  upon  the  Cross.  Katherine 
noticed  only  the  dramatic  effect,  the  change  from  the  blue 
dimness  to  this  dazzling  piercing  shaft  of  quivering  white 
ness.  Then  her  eyes  rested  on  the  illuminated  figure,  the 
embodied  pain  of  all  humanity. 

"That  has  been  the  comfort  of  desolate  men  and  women 
through  the  ages,"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  if  it  will  be 
mine." 

The  woman  near  her  had  also  seen  the  change  of  light. 
A  long  sigh  came  form  her  lips,  as  though  she,  also, 
wanted  relief. 

Katherine  looked  at  her,  and  yielding  to  her  impulse 
said: 

"You  are  unhappy  too." 

The  dull  eyes  turned  to  her.  A  faint  color  came  into 
the  yellow  cheeks. 

"I'm  very  ill,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  tired,  and  I  came  in 
'ere  to  rest.  I've  got  a  daughter,  and  I  have  to  work  to 
keep  her,  but  it's  difficult  to  get,  and  I'm  not  much  good 
they  tells  me  at  the  places  where  I  go." 

"I'm  ill  too.  I'm  going  to  die,"  said  Katherine,  and 
she  took  the  hand  in  the  shabby  glove.  The  very  contact 
with  a  human  being  seemed  to  bring  relief.  The  woman 
looked  at  her  wondering. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "Its  'ard  to  suffer,  and  you're 
very  young.  I'm  sorry." 

The  words  were  so  kindly  said,  the  tears  came  into 
Katherine's  eyes.  She  turned  to  go,  but  stopped  a  mo 
ment  and  passed  behind  the  woman's  chair,  and  slipped 
a  five-pound  note  into  her  lap. 

"Take  rest  while  you  can  get  it,"  she  whispered,  and 
was  gone.  When  she  came  out  in  the  sunlight  her  heart 
was  less  sore. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Miss  OSTERLEY  with  flying  bonnet  strings  and  a  per 
turbed  look  on  her  face  stood  in  Elizabeth's  room. 

"Called  away,  do  you  say,  dear,  to  his  mother?  How 
unfortunate!  I  am  very  sorry.  I  had  quite  hoped  he 
would  have  helped  me  about  a  most  important  case,  one 
of  the  most  flagrant  I  have  come  across.  I  am  to  go  to 
the  County  Council  about  it.  No,  Father  Martin's  no 
use,"  in  answer  to  Elizabeth's  suggestion;  ''he  is  too 
timid.  I  must  be  plain,"  she  said,  standing  with  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her,  "besides  which,  he  is  steeped  in  all 
sorts  of  ccclesiasticisms  about  marriage,  which  narrow  his 
views  as  to  the  rights  of  women.  I  have  got  beyond  all 
that.  I  see  quite  plainly  that  our  present  system  is  utterly 
rotten." 

Elizabeth  tried  to  avert  the  explanations  which  she  felt 
sure  were  coming. 

"Can  I  do  anything,  Miss  Osterley,  to  help  you?" 

"Well,  it's  hardly  a  case  for  you,  I'm  afraid;  although 
I'm  sure  young  women  ought  to  know  all  the  horrors  that 
go  on.  In  our  society,  we  have  some  really  very  plucky 
girls,  who  go  disguised  to  all  sorts  of  places,  and  bring 
back  most  valuable  evidence.  Indeed,  the  very  case  I 
have  now,  was  got  for  me  by  a  girl  younger  than  you. 
She " 

"Oh  don't,  Miss  Osterley.  I  would  really  like  to  help 
you,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  used  as  a  sort  of  moral  ferret 
to  rout  out  horrors." 

"That's  where  you're  so  cowardly,  Elizabeth,"  said 

3" 


UNDER  THE  ARCH 

Miss  Osterley,  pulling  violently  at  her  bonnet  strings,  and 
tying  them  into  a  hard  stringy  bow.  "What  other  girls 
suffer  you  ought  not  to  mind  knowing;  but,  after  all,  you 
are  all  what  men  make  you,  just  puppets  trained  to  do 
their  will,  until  you're  sold  into  that  moral  slavery  called 
marriage.  Oh,  I've  no  patience  with  these  wretched  con 
ventionalities.  Such  things  as  I  am  attacking  could  not 
be,  if  every  honest  woman  were  not  afraid  of  the  opinion 
of  some  man,  and  would  speak  out.  Well,  I  have  very 
little  time.  I  must  go  and  meet  the  editor  of  the  Night 
Watch.  He  is  one  of  us,  and  is  quite  ready  to  organize  a 
campaign." 

At  this  moment  Martha  came  in  with  a  telegram. 

"I  expect  it's  from  Mr.  Fane,  Miss  Elizabeth.  I  should 
like  to  hear  how  Mrs.  Fane  is." 

Elizabeth  opened  the  yellow  envelope,  and  read : 

"Too  late.     Please  come;  bring  Martha." 

"Oh,  poor  Michael!"  said  Elizabeth,  sitting  down. 

"  Lor*,  how  sudden !"  said  Martha.  "Poor  lady!  lam 
really  grieved.  Shall  I  get  ready  to  go?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "get  ready,  Nanny,  and  look 
out  a  train.  We  will  go  at  once." 

"Poor  Mr.  Fane!"  echoed  Miss  Osterley  with  real  feel 
ing.  "He  will  be  terribly  cut  up.  His  affection  for  his 
mother  was  really  beautiful.  It  made  him  genuinely  care 
for  women's  welfare.  He  is  one  of  the  few  men  who  will 
unselfishly  work  for  their  good.  I  am  very  sorry.  She 
was  a  cultivated,  broad-minded  woman,  I  hear." 

"She  was  a  perfect  angel,"  said  Elizabeth,  and  she 
went  away  to  pack,  with  a  heavy  heart.  A  tender  com 
panion  and  a  link  with  her  childhood  had  gone  from  her 
she  knew,  but  she  thought  most  of  Michael. 

On  the  little  platform  at  Ilbury  an  anxious  white  face 
was  waiting  for  her,  with  heavy  blue  lines  round  the  eyes. 
Elizabeth  had  never  seen  Michael  other  than  cheerful  and 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  313 

strong,  and  she  took  his  hand  and  patted  it  with  a  great 
desire  to  comfort  him. 

Martha  looked  after  her  box,  and  Michael  and  Eliza 
beth  walked  away  across  the  fields  toward  the  Mill.  The 
elm-trees  were  raining  their  yellow  leaves  on  the  damp 
grass.  The  country  looked  very  brown  and  gray  and 
cheerless.  A  flight  of  rooks  were  cawing  noisily  as  they 
winged  toward  home.  The  way  was  very  familiar,  and 
yet  everything  seemed  strangely  altered.  Michael  spoke 
in  short  broken  sentences,  as  though  afraid  to  trust  him 
self. 

"She  was  in  her  garden,  'putting  her  flowers  to  bed,' 
you  remember  she  used  to  call  it,  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
when  she  turned  giddy  and  faint,  and  fell  down.  The 
girl  heard  her  and  ran  out,  and  called  Rawlins,  who  was 
working  in  the  kitchen  garden,  and  they  carried  her  in 
and  laid  her  in  the  parlor.  She  never  knew  any  one,  and 
just  before  I  got  here  she  sighed  and  was  gone.  It  seems 
so  terrible,  Elizabeth,  to  see  the  place  without  her.  I 
have  never  been  home  that  she  did  not  meet  me  at  the 
gate.  I  always  felt  like  a  boy  with  her,  just  the  same  as 
years  ago.  I  told  her  everything,  and  she  always  under 
stood." 

Elizabeth  listened,  with  a  sympathy  deepened  by  her 
experience  of  his  mother's  rare  character,  and  they  dis 
cussed  quietly  and  naturally  all  that  made  her  so  winning 
and  so  wise,  until  they  got  to  the  white  gate  which  opened 
on  the  narrow  brick-path  bordered  by  the  beds  where 
flowers  no  longer  bloomed.  Here  Michael  paused. 

"Betty,  I  have  taken  rooms  at  Miss  Holdsworth's  for 
you  and  Martha.  I  thought  you  would  rather,  but  please 
come  in  now." 

She  walked  up  the  well-known  way  she  had  so  often 
trodden.  No  blinds  were  drawn,  nor  any  token  of  mourn 
ing,  only  the  tall  motherly  figure  did  not  come  into  the 


314  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

poreh  to  take  her  in  her  arms,  and  lead  her  to  the  low 
chair  where  she  sat  beside  her,  and  questioned  her  about 
every  interest  or  difficulty  in  her  life,  caring  supremely 
about  each  little  detail.  • 

In  the  dim  light  Elizabeth  saw  the  familiar  parlor  was 
only  slightly  re-arranged. 

"She  lies — upstairs  in  her  own  quiet  room,"  said  Mi 
chael,  and  then,  like  a  child  who  could  no  longer  restrain 
his  grief,  he  bent  his  head,  covered  his  face,  and  sobbed. 

Elizabeth  went  to  him,  put  her  arm  through  his,  and 
led  him  away  out  into  the  porch,  and  there  they  stood, 
while  she  calmed  and  soothed  him  with  quiet  tender 
words. 

Two  days  later  they  laid  her  to  rest  in  a  corner  of  the 
village  churchyard  on  a  cold  gray  day,  and  afterward, 
when  Michael  and  Elizabeth  were  sitting  in  his  little  den 
at  the  Mill  Farm,  he  began  talking  about  the  place. 

"  I  can  never  part  with  it,"  he  said.  "  Every  plant  in  the 
garden  and  every  corner  of  the  rooms  is  filled  with  her 
presence.  I  recollect  some  little  word  of  hers,  or  some 
action  wherever  I  go.  I  shall  keep  it;  I  know  she  would 
have  wished  it." 

"It  is  a  place  of  infinite  peace,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I 
— shall  always  think  of  it  as  the  dearest  spot  on  earth." 

"That's  another  good  reason  for  keeping  it,"  said  Mi 
chael  with  a  sad  little  smile. 

Tea  was  brought  in  by  the  maid  dressed  in  black.  It 
was  the  only  sign  of  conventional  mourning,  but  Martha 
thought  it  shocking  not  to  observe  these  customs  of  re 
spect,  and  insisted. 

"Put  it  there  by  the  fire,"  said  Michael.  "Betty,  will 
you  sit  in  this  low  chair  so,  and  pour  it  out?" 

Elizabeth  saw  it  was  the  place  where  his  mother  always 
made  his  tea  when  it  was  brought  to  his  room,  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  and  then  obeyed  his  wish,  and  the  look  of 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  315 

content  which  came  to  his  worn  face  was  the  first  indica 
tion  she  had  seen  that  he  was  comforted. 

The  day  following  Elizabeth  returned  to  London.  Mi 
chael  came  with  her  to  the  station,  and  as  she  watched 
him  when  the  train  moved  away,  she  felt  it  was  hard  to  go. 
She  knew  how  much  he  needed  her  support,  and  then  she 
thought  how  strange  it  was  that  this  strong  man,  to  whom 
she  had  always  looked  for  help  or  guidance,  should  now 
cling  to  her  like  a  child  in  pain,  and  her  heart  went  out  to 
him  in  his  hour  of  weakness. 

When  Elizabeth  returned  to  Marshom  Street  the 
weather  was  raw  and  cold.  Sally  had  grown  strong  again, 
but  she  looked  pinched  and  blue.  The  thin  cape  was  still 
strained  across  her  shoulders,  and  her  skirt  was  in  rags. 

Elizabeth  stopped  her  in  the  court.  She  had  given  her 
a  warm  frock  and  jacket,  hoping  in  this  way  that  she 
might  keep  well  through  the  winter,  just  before  she  went 
to  Ilbury. 

Where  were  they? 

"Please,  miss,  mother  said  as  the  old  ones  would  do 
very  well  for  every  diy,  and  she  took  them  off  to  Mr. 
Cohen's." 

"You're  cold,  Sally,  in  these  wretched  things,"  said 
Elizabeth,  feeling  really  vexed. 

"  Oh  dear  no,  miss,  I  ain't.  Billy  and  I  plays  cat-in-the- 
wheel  to  warm  ourselves,  and  we  runs  as  'ard  as  we  can 
down  the  street,  and  then  we  gets  a-lookin'  in  at  the  win 
ders  and  a-smellin'  the  fried  fish.  I  ain't  cold." 

Two  nights  after  that,  a  driving  wind  blew  through  the 
court.  Shop  hours  were  over,  and  Sally  and  Billy  sat  to 
gether  on  a  step  eating  "roasted  pertater."  They  were 
laughing  over  the  splendid  prize,  and  eating  it  slowly  to 
make  it  last,  when  a  "copper"  came  up,  and  before  Sally 
could  think  or  move,  Billy  was  gone.  She  sat  breathless 
with  the  potato  still  in  her  hand,  and  late  that  evening, 


316  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

after  the  rain  began  to  fall,  Elizabeth  found  her  as  she 
went  home  after  her  rounds,  a  white-faced  little  ghost 
haunting  the  court. 

"Kiss  me,  miss,"  she  said  passionately,  clinging  to  her 
skirt  when  she  finished  her  story.  "They've  took  'im 
awiy,  and  I'll  never  see  'im  agine." 

Next  day  Elizabeth  went  to  Mrs.  Catchpole.  She  had 
just  come  back  from  Court,  and  had  got  her  best  bonnet 
out  of  pawn. 

"What  did  you  say?"  said  Elizabeth,  standing  before 
her  and  speaking  severely. 

"I  said,"  answered  Mrs.  Catchpole,  "as  'e'd  allus  been 
a  bad  boy;  I  niver  could  do  nofink  with  'im,"  and  here 
she  began  to  cry  in  a  snivelling  way,  just  as  she  had  no 
doubt  done  in  Court.  "I  said  as  'e  'as  a  good  'ome  if  iver 
a  boy  'ad,"  she  said,  rubbing  her  red  face.  "And  then  I 
tould  the  gentleman  as  'e'd  better  be  in  a  school,  though 
in  course  I  didn't  like  partin'  with  'im,  as  'e  was  my  only 
boy.  That's  what  I  said,  miss." 

"A  pack  of  lies,"  said  Elizabeth,  the  light  coming  into 
her  eyes.  "You've  been  a  bad  mother,  and  now  he's 
gone  away  to  a  reformatory.  I  hope  when  he  comes  out, 
he'll  go  off  and  earn  his  living,  and  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  you.  I  will  take  Sally  with  me,"  she  added,  after 
a  moment's  thought,  "and  get  her  trained.  You're  not 
fit  to  have  children." 

Mrs.  Catchpole  was  fairly  howling. 

"It's  'ard,  very  'ard,"  she  gasped,  "to  'ave  the  children 
took  and  set  agin  their  own  mother." 

But  Sally  looked  up  into  Elizabeth's  face.  Could  she 
mean  it,  after  she  had  helped  Billy  to  "sneak  the  per- 
tater  "  ?  She  put  her  hand  into  hers,  and  said : 

"I'll  try  and  mind  wot  yer  siy,  see  if  I  don't." 

"We'll  write  and  tell  Billy,"  said  Elizabeth,  "and  get 
leave  to  go  and  see  him." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  317 

"'E  won't  be  starved  there,  will  'e?"  said  Sally. 

"Not  he,"  but  her  heart  failed  her  when  she  thought  of 
the  lonely  boy.  "If  he  knows  you're  doing  well,  he'll  try 
his  hardest  to  get  on  too,"  said  Elizabeth. 

So  Sally  was  installed  at  the  corner  house.  Martha  was 
somewhat  troubled  at  first,  and  came  to  Elizabeth  with 
horrible  details  as  to  Sally's  condition  of  personal  neglect ; 
but  by-and-by  she  felt  invigorated  by  the  presence  of  some 
one  to  whom  she  could  give  her  orders,  and  she  was  recon 
ciled  to  Sally's  presence.  And  before  a  week  had  passed, 
in  answer  to  Elizabeth's  question,  she  said : 

"Well,  miss,  she  may  make  a  servant  if  she's  taught  to 
be  thorough." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

SOME  weeks  after  her  return  from  Ilbury  Elizabeth  re 
ceived  a  telegram  from  Katherine,  asking  her  to  come  to 
her  that  evening.  Lady  Hornden  met  her  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  her  welcome  was  very  warm. 

"I'm  only  too  glad  you  have  come;  I  know  Katherine 
wants  to  see  you.  She  is  certainly  better  than  she  was," 
she  said  in  answer  to  her  question,  "much  more  herself. 
She  was  out  for  hours  the  other  day ;  we  were  all  terribly 
alarmed  when  she  stayed  away  so  long,  but  she  had  been 
driving  about  and  shopping,  and  she  came  home  really 
cheerful.  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  her  for  ages  to 
go  abroad  to  some  warm,  sunny  place,  but  she  would 
never  hear  of  it ;  and  now  she  says  she  is  ready  to  go  any 
where  the  doctors  wish.  I  can't  help  thinking,"  she  said, 
looking  wistfully  at  Elizabeth,  "that  they  are  mistaken  in 
thinking  her  illness  is  hopeless ;  don't  you  think  they  may 
be?  They  are  often  such  alarmists." 

"I  think  it  is  only  the  poor,  who  get  to  know  the  whole 
truth,"  said  Elizabeth.  "The  rich  are  either  terrified  or 
buoyed  up  with  false  hope." 

"It's  only  to  me  they've  spoken  so  depressingly.  They 
have  not  told  Katherine;  she  has  no  idea  of  it.  You  will 
be  careful  when  you  see  her." 

"Indeed  I  will;  but  oh,  how  terrible  it  is!  I  am  so 
grieved."  And  big  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  Lady  Hornden. 

"  Dear  Miss  Maynell,"  said  Lady  Hornden,  taking  her 
hand,  "you  will  forgive  me  for  saying  it,  but  you  are  so 
different  from  anything  I  had  imagined.  I  thought  of 

318 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  319 

you  as  a  good-doing,  badly-dressed,  rather  old-maidish 
girl;  but  you're  so  pretty  and  young,  and  such  a  charm 
ing  hat";  and  Lady  Hornden  turned  on  Elizabeth  her 
tired  eyes,  lit  by  a  momentary  interest. 

"Have  I?"  said  Elizabeth,  smiling.  "I  am  very  glad. 
I  love  pretty  things  much  more  than  I  ought  to.  It  was 
always  a  joy  to  see  Lady  Cliffe  when  she  came  to  Marshom 
Street.  She  brought  so  much  beauty,  it  did  us  all  good." 

"Yes,  she  has  a  charm  all  her  own;  she  is  so  merry, 
and  yet — so — so —  Lady  Hornden  looked  about  for  a 
word,  "so  spiritual.  I  always  say  she  has  a  rare  combina 
tion  of  body  and  soul,  and  she  always  knows  just  what  to 
say,  and  what  to  wear,  which  gives  such  a  sense  of  har 
mony.  Poor  darling!  She  has  had  dreadful  troubles"; 
and  she  sighed.  "I  could  never  have  believed  that  she, 
who  had  everything  to  give,  could  have  been  stricken 
down  like  this." 

Elizabeth  had  no  intention  of  discussing  late  events 
with  Lady  Hornden,  and  turned  the  conversation  by  ask 
ing  about  winter  plans. 

"I  say  Madeira;  it  is  a  wonderful  climate,  and  it  is 
right  away  from  all  the  people  who  might  recall  her  troub 
les.  And  she  loves  beautiful  country;  she  could  sit  out 
all  day.  I  should  take  a  doctor  and  nurses;  and  I  can't 
help  thinking,"  she  said,  and  a  sort  of  sunrise  of  hope 
came  into  her  face,  "that  she  might  get  better.  After  all, 
the  doctors  know  literally  nothing;  they  are  all  ignorant; 
but  the  only  thing  they  don't  know  is  how  little  their  opin 
ion  is  worth.  I  must  not  keep  you,"  she  said,  getting  up 
and  taking  Elizabeth's  hand,  "you  must  go  to  Katherine. 
She  has  gone  to  bed,  poor  lamb;  she  was  tired  out  after 
a  long  day  putting  away  her  things,  and  tearing  letters, 
and  all  sorts  of  tiresome  business.  So  I  persuaded  her  to 
go  to  bed  and  see  you  in  her  room.  I  am  changing  the 
nurse;  the  new  one  comes  to-night." 


320  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

As  she  spoke  she  led  the  way  up  the  broad  staircase, 
opened  the  dressing-room  door  which  led  into  Katherine's 
and  went  herself  into  the  room  beyond. 

"Katherine,  darling,  I  have  brought  her,"  Elizabeth 
heard  her  say  as  the  door  stood  ajar.  "You  never  told 
me  she  was  so  pretty;  she  is  charmingly  distinguished." 

"Tell  her  to  come  in,"  said  Katherine.  "I  want  to  see 
her  very  much." 

The  room  was  very  large  and  white,  with  glittering  gilt 
glasses,  and  an  impression  of  many  things  that  shone  and 
shimmered.  A  carved  and  gilded  bed  with  a  draped  can 
opy  of  white  damask  and  delicate  white  muslin  was  the 
principal  object  that  caught  Elizabeth's  eye,  and  lying  on 
a  heap  of  pillows,  in  the  midst  of  filmy  lace,  was  the  golden 
head  and  pale  face,  with  its  large  bright  eyes  looking  eager 
ly  toward  the  door.  Two  thin  hands  were  held  out,  and 
Elizabeth  was  kneeling  by  her  and  saying  little  broken 
tender  words. 

After  the  door  was  closed  Katherine  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow,  and  said: 

"Listen  to  me.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  dear  St.  Clara, 
quite  plainly;  you  and  I,  at  any  rate,  needn't  mince  mat 
ters.  I  am  not  going  to  get  well;  mama  doesn't  know  it, 
but  I  am  not.  I  don't  want  her  troubled,  but  the  doctors 
all  lie.  They  know  very  well  that  I  shall  not  get  better. 
I  have  found  it  out  for  myself.  I  \vould  so  much  rather 
know,  and  I  don't  think  I  am  afraid.  It  seems  very  odd 
when  I  look  round  to  know  I  am  going  away  from  it  all, 
and  that  the  things  I  have  used  every  day,  and  all  the 
places  where  I  have  been,  will  remain,  and  I  shall  have 
gone — I  don't  know  where;  I'm  not  like  you,  I  have  no 
ideas  about  these  things." 

Elizabeth  laid  her  head  down  beside  her  and  held  her 
breath.  She  did  not  want  to  cry ;  she  felt  it  would  be  hard 
on  Katherine. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  321 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  just  going  to  sleep;  perhaps  it  will 
be  to  travel  far  and  far  away  to  some  other  world.  But 
that  seems  to  me  a  lonely  thing,  I'm  not  sure  I  wouldn't 
sooner  just  sleep.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  that,  but  of 
things  you  and  I  have  met  together.  Dear,  I  ought  to 
have  seen  you  long  ago,"  and  she  put  her  feverish  hands 
into  Elizabeth's.  "I  ought  to  have  told  you  I  was  unjust, 
cruel;  but  it  has  been  so  hard  to  wake,  and  find  every 
thing  was  a  dream,  and  such  a  bad  dream  too.  It  was  not 
only  that,"  she  added,  with  scrupulous  truth;  "it  was  be 
cause  I  was  vexed  that  I  had  not  been  always  first.  You 
forgive  me,  don't  you?" 

Elizabeth  could  not  speak,  she  only  pressed  her  hand. 

"Now,  dear,  if  he  comes  back  to  you  after  I  am  gone, 
could  you  forgive  him  ?  He  was  mean ;  but  he  has  had  a 
bitter  lesson.  Don't  you  think  you  could  ?" 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  forgiving  any  man,"  said  Eliza 
beth  very  low.  "I've  long  ago  forgotten  the  suffering,  only 
this  thing  has  killed  my  love — it  lies  dead.  Nothing  could 
make  it  live  again." 

"Not  if  he  were  sorry,  and  came  to  you?"  pleaded 
Katherine. 

"  No,  never,  never.  Trust  is  the  only  thing  that  matters, 
and  if  that  goes  there  is  nothing  left."  And,  as  she  said 
the  words,  she  felt  vaguely  conscious  that  there  was  an 
other  reason,  the  place  in  her  heart  was  no  longer  empty. 
"Don't  let  us  talk  about  him;  let  me  talk  of  you." 

Katherine  lay  back.  She  told  Elizabeth  of  her  visit  to 
the  hospital. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  not  come  to  me?"  she  cried.  "I 
would  have  gone  with  you." 

"No,  no,"  said  Katherine,  "it  was  best  I  should  face  it 
alone.  All  the  big  things  of  life  we  must  face  alone;  there 
is  nothing  in  all  the  world  so  lonely  as  a  human  soul." 

"Only  because  we  are  imprisoned  in  this  cocoon  of  a 


322  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

body,"  said  Elizabeth,  "and  we  can't  see  and  know  the 
host  innumerable  which  is  all  round  us,  watching  over  and 
helping  us." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Katherine.  "Who  can  tell  that  they 
really  exist  ?  But  even  if  they  are  near  us,  they  are  out 
side  our  lives,  beings  different  from  ourselves,  with  differ 
ent  ideas  and  wants  and  wishes.  It's  no  use,  Elizabeth," 
she  said,  looking  at  her  with  solemn  eyes,  "when  we  go 
into  mid-stream,  with  faces  set  away  from  our  world,  we 
have  to  wade  alone.  First  a  little  way,  as  I  am  doing  now, 
just  like  a  child  paddling  and  feeling  the  first  cold,  and 
then,  by-and-by,  to  gasp  when  it  closes  round  us,  until  we 
go  deeper,  deeper,  and  then  to  sink  and  lie  still  at  the  bot 
tom,  or  reach  the  strange  new  shore.  Oh,  I  have  thought 
and  thought  about  it,  and  it  seems  to  me  a  dark  and  grim 
journey,  and  I  don't  know  where  it  leads." 

Elizabeth  said  nothing.  She  did  not  try  to  argue;  she 
had  learned  some  wisdom,  and  she  knew  that  the  intricate 
machinery  of  a  human  soul  cannot  be  roughly  handled  by 
rude  hands,  taken  to  pieces  and  put  together  our  way,  and 
told  that  it  will  work  now.  Then  she  resolved  to  try  and 
help  her  if  she  possibly  could,  and  she  said : 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  pilot  who  goes  out  to 
help  more  broken,  battered  human  lives  than  any  one  else 
I  know,  and  steers  them  into  safe  port?" 

Katherine  hesitated. 

"Is  it  a  clergyman?  I  hate  clergymen,"  she  said. 
"They  are  always  conceited,  and  generally  narrow- 
minded." 

"You  won't  hate  this  one.  Don't  you  remember  the 
old  man  who  was  with  us  in  Marshom  Street,  when  you 
heard  them  crying  the  news  in  the  street?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Katherine.  "Father  Martin,  I  remem 
ber  him,  the  man  with  a  face  like  an  old  saint ;  yes,  I  re 
member.  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  him  with  you,  only 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  323 

I  want  you  to  promise  that  if  we  go  to-morrow,  you  will 
come  back  here  and  stay  at  least  one  night  under  my  roof." 

Father  Martin  sat  in  his  untidy  study,  with  the  dust  of 
ages  on  papers  and  books.  Nothing  was  to  be  touched; 
he  wished  to  clean  it  himself,  he  always  said ;  but  the  time 
had  not  yet  come  when  he  had  the  leisure,  or  the  in 
clination. 

Opposite  him  sat  Katherine,  dressed  in  a  long  cloak 
lined  with  ermine,  very  white,  and  dazzling  against  the 
brown  books  and  shabby  furniture.  The  old  face,  with 
its  map  of  wrinkles,  marking  the  many  ways  along  which 
the  soul  had  travelled,  looked  on  her  with  a  great  pity  as 
she  told  him  her  sorrowful  story. 

"You  don't  wonder,  do  you,"  she  said  when  she  ended 
it,  "that  I  have  no  visions?  I  have  been  just  a  butterfly, 
but  the  nip  of  winter  has  me  in  its  grasp;  and  now  that  I 
am  going  to  die  so  soon,  I  don't  know  where  I  am  going; 
I  feel  I  have  lost  my  way.  I  hear  the  people  talking  and 
laughing  round  me,  and  I  long  to  tell  them  all  that  I  used 
to  laugh  too,  and  never  cared  what  happened  to-morrow, 
until  I  knew  I  had  to  die.  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it ; 
I'm  not  frightened,  but  I'm  so  hopeless." 

And  then,  as  though  the  old  man  were  talking  to  a  child, 
he  tried  to  show  her  how  there  are  those  whom  God  Him 
self  leads  along  strange  ways,  and  yet  they  never  knew 
that  He  was  leading  them  at  all ;  that  if  she  would  look  up, 
she  would  see  a  light  on  her  way  she  had  not  known  was 
there,  and  that  this  light  would  make  things  clear  and 
plain — would  lighten  all  the  world,  so  that  she  could  see 
clearly.  He  showed  her  how  her  returning  sense  of  loyalty 
had  been  a  retracing  of  her  footsteps  back  into  the  path 
where  light  shone ;  and  that  the  very  love  which  had  come 
into  her  life  was  a  fragment  of  the  great  love  of  which  she 
was  a  part,  for  only  by  love  can  we  know  God. 


324  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"But  it  is  too  late  now;  I  have  lived  all  my  life." 

"No,  it  is  beginning,"  he  said,  "just  beginning.  The 
Angel  of  Life  has  met  you  sooner  than  he  meets  most  of 
us,  and  on  the  very  threshold  of  your  earthly  life  he  has 
come  to  take  you  quickly  into  the  open  way.  For  you 
there  is  to  be  no  time  when  the  '  keeper  of  the  strong  house 
shall  tremble,'  no  'darkening  of  the  windows,'  no  years 
when  the  grasshopper  becomes  a  burden."  And  then  gen 
tly  he  led  her  up  that  mountain  where  earthly  eyes  see 
things  heavenly,  in  the  light  that  transforms  pleasure  and 
pain  alike,  and  turns  both  to  joy,  and  where  in  the  God- 
man  we  see  humanity  transfigured,  and  realize  its  rela 
tion  to  God. 

Katherine  listened  wistfully;  as  he  talked  to  her,  some 
ray  of  hope  flitted  fitfully  through  her  heart.  If  it  could 
be  true  for  her — if  she  could  find  the  light  she  longed  for, 
with  the  passionate  desire  of  the  blind. 

"Teach  her,"  he  prayed,  before  they  parted,  "to  trust, 
and  know  no  fear ;  to  fear  Thee  only,  so  that  she  may  keep 
nothing  back  from  Thee,  and  then  to  love  Thee,  with  all 
fear  cast  out." 

"As  you  now  share  the  crown  of  thorns,"  he  said,  as 
he  bade  her  good-by,  "so  shall  it  become  a  crown  of 
glory." 

Katherine  was  very  silent  as  they  drove  back  to  Hill 
Street. 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said. 

"You  must  go  straight  to  your  bed,"  said  Elizabeth. 
She  knew  she  longed  to  be  alone. 

"You  are  going  to  stay  with  me — you  won't  leave  me 
to-night?" 

"No;  I  will  stay  with  you  as  long  as  you  want  me." 

"That's  right;  I  want  you  more  than  your  shimmies 
do,  now." 

Katherine  lay  very  still  when  she  was  once  more  in  her 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  325 

bed.  The  room  was  dim,  and  the  house  quiet.  She  thought 
of  all  Father  Martin  told  her. 

"If  I  could  be  sure  it  was  all  true,"  she  said.  "I  would 
not  mind  if  Jack  would  only  send  me  some  message." 

Her  hand  hung  over  the  side  of  the  bed.  Presently 
there  was  a  rustling  sound;  something  came  toward  her. 
Something  cold  touched  her  hand;  she  started  with  a 
stifled  cry,  and  then  looked  down.  Nip's  rugged  head 
was  rubbed  against  her;  the  faithful  brown  eyes  looked 
up  to  hers. 

"Nip,  old  boy — Jack's  dog — I  haven't  seen  you  since 
he  went  away,"  and  she  kissed  his  shaggy  coat,  while  her 
tears  fell  fast.  "Did  he  send  you  to  comfort  me?"  she 
asked.  And  for  answer  his  tail  beat  against  the  bed  with 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE  train  would  start  in  a  few  minutes.  A  group  of 
friends  clustered  round  the  saloon  carriage.  Lady  Horn- 
den  stood  on  the  platform  shaking  hands  and  saying 
many  good-bys.  Katherine  sat  at  the  window  serene  and 
smiling. 

Elizabeth  was  to  travel  with  her  to  Southampton;  she 
wished  to  say  good-by  to  her  on  the  boat. 

They  saw  the  last  of  Jack  at  this  very  station,  Kathe 
rine  thought,  as  she  looked  at  the  grimy  arches  and  the 
hurrying  crowds,  and  here  they  will  see  the  last  of  me. 

She  heard  Sir  James's  voice  saying,  in  answer  to  Lady 
Hornden's  question: 

"Madeira,  my  dear  lady,  I  don't  believe  there's  a  drop 
of  really  fine  Madeira  in  the  world  now.  You  have  a  little 
in  your  cellar,  but  it's  as  rare  as  a  hen's  tooth." 

Then  Mr.  Farningham  came  to  the  window. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Cliffe,  I  envy  you  the  sunshine  and 
the  joie  de  vivre  of  that  heavenly  country.  How  well  you 
will  be,  and  how  blooming  you  will  look,  when  you  come 
back.  And  you  must  promise  me  you  will  always  wear 
mauve,  the  same  shade  you  wore  last  year  at  Windsor;  it 
is  the  most  exquisite  thing  with  your  coloring,  it  makes 
you  look  like  mother-of-pearl." 

"Oh,  don't  let's  discuss  that;  when  I  come  back  my 
dress  will  probably  be  a  surprise  to  everybody."  And 
Katherine's  face  for  a  moment  resumed  its  old  mocking 
look. 

"  I  really  almost  think  I  shall  take  a  steamer,  and  come 
out,  if  the  fogs  are  bad." 

326 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  327 

"Well,  if  London  is  unbearable,  try  us  as  a  last  re 
source." 

Mr.  Farningham  did  not  care  for  jokes  which  he  did 
not  make  himself;  he  was  always  in  dread  lest  somehow 
he  might  be.  made  ridiculous  before  he  was  aware  of  it, 
and  he  turned  to  Lady  Hornden.  Anne  took  his  place. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  holding  Katherine's  hand. 
"How  we  shall  miss  you." 

"For  ten  minutes,"  said  Katherine,  "I  think  you  will; 
just  as  long  as  it  takes  to  drive  to  Bond  Street,  and  then 
you  will  get  quite  accustomed,  and  not  miss  me  at  all,  and 
that  will  be  wholesome  and  good  and  as  it  should  be." 

"Come  back  quite  well,  dear  old  thing;  that  is  the  only 
really  important  thing.  It's  not  true;  every  one  will  miss 
you;  you  have  hardly  got  an  enemy  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  that's  because  I've  lost  at  every  game,  and  never 
done  any  one  a  good  turn.  If  you  put  people  under  obli 
gations  you  can  make  enemies  as  you  force  cucumbers; 
you  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  they  cost  you  very 
dear." 

Katherine  was  looking  very  white  and  tired,  and  Eliza 
beth  saw  how  much  the  effort  of  her  affected  gayety  was 
costing  her. 

"  Good-by,"  cried  Lady  Hornden,  as  the  guard  told  her 
to  take  her  seat.  "We  shall  come  back  quite  well;  you 
will  see  what  a  success  Madeira  will  be.  How  much  we 
shall  want  to  see  you  all.  Au  revoir,  au  revoir"  as  the 
train  began  slowly  to  move  out. 

"Good-by,"  said  Katherine,  "good-by." 

The  great  gray  ship  was  moored  opposite  the  platform 
when  the  train  stopped.  Piles  of  luggage,  with  as  many 
stripes  of  color  as  Joseph's  coat,  were  heaped  on  the  sta 
tion.  Anxious  people  were  bustling  round,  calm  people 
were  walking  up  and  down,  sad  people  were  crying,  happy 
people  laughing.  Katherine  neither  laughed  nor  cried. 


328  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

When  the  gangway  joined  England  to  the  floating  king 
dom  which  was  for  a  little  while  to  be  their  country,  she 
walked  across  it  with  head  erect,  and  only  when  she  reached 
the  deck  she  whispered  to  Elizabeth: 

"I've  trodden  on  old  England's  soil  for  the  last  time." 

Then  ensued  a  perfect  hurricane  of  preparation.  A  box 
was  missing.  Lady  Hornden  was  in  despair;  everything 
else  could  well  be  lost  but  this  one.  More  lamentations, 
then  anxiety  was  turned  once  more  to  ease— the  box  was 
found,  said  the  grave  servant.  Air  cushions,  bags,  books, 
flowers,  were  all  sorted  and  conveyed  to  the  deck  state 
room.  Two  maids  and  two  nurses  ran  and  fetched  and 
carried.  The  doctor,  a  quiet  young  man  in  a  gray  ulster, 
took  Lady  ClifTe  to  her  cabin  on  the  upper  deck,  sent  for 
a  nurse,  and  ordered  her  to  bed ;  and,  indeed,  she  looked 
as  though  the  nervous  strain  was  almost  to  breaking  point. 

"Will  you  send  for  me  when  you  are  settled?"  said 
Elizabeth,  who  went  back  to  help  Lady  Hornden. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  what  these  days  have  been.  The  prep 
aration,  the  anxiety,  the  worries — Non,  ma  chere,  je  ne 
change  pas  ma  robe  ce  soir,  on  dine  en  toilette  de  ville  au- 
jourd'hui,  c'est  de  rigueur" — to  a  French  maid.  "Oh, 
what  was  I  saying? — yes,  the  work  has  been  untold. 

Well,  if  only "  and  she  looked  at  Elizabeth;  "but  I 

am  sure  it  will;  I  have  a  presentiment  that  this  is  the  step 
which  will  give  her  new  life." 

Elizabeth  wondered  as  she  thought  of  the  truth  she,  in 
common  with  so  many  of  us,  unconsciously  uttered. 

"Her  ladyship  is  ready  for  you,"  said  the  nurse  who 
came  to  fetch  her. 

Elizabeth  walked  into  the  large  stateroom,  hideous  with 
plaster  bas  reliefs  of  undressed  men  and  women,  who 
seemed  uncomfortably  to  realize  their  ill-drawn  inde 
cency,  glaring  coloring,  and  expensive  woodwork. 

In  the  midst  of  the  inappropriate  surroundings   lay 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  329 

Katherine.  Her  presence  made  all  the  bad  taste  insig 
nificant;  she  looked  so  transparently,  ethereally  white, 
the  gold  of  her  hair  the  only  note  of  color,  except  the  large 
wondering  blue  eyes. 

"Come  and  tuck  me  up,  dear,  dear  St.  Clara,"  she  said, 
"and  kiss  me  good-night,  as  children  say;  and  pray  that 
you  and  I  may  be  together  again  somewhere,  some  day." 

The  tramp  of  feet  on  the  deck  was  as  an  on-marching 
army;  voices  calling,  and  shrill  questions  as  to  rooms  and 
luggage.  Elizabeth  could  hardly  steady  her  thoughts,  but 
Katherine  seemed  to  hear  nothing.  Already  the  tide  was 
carrying  her  out  beyond  the  voices  of  the  world. 

"Kiss  me  again,  and  again,"  she  said. 

Elizabeth  bent  over  the  bed  where  she  lay;  it  seemed 
to  her  fancy  as  the  cot  of  a  little  child. 

"The  first  gong,"  said  the  steward  to  the  nurse  who 
stood  outside.  "The  next  one,  all  visitors  must  go  on 
shore." 

"Only  a  moment  more,"  said  Katherine.  "Listen,  I 
want  to  say  if  there  is  another  life  for  me,  and  I  am  worthy, 
and  if  I  am  allowed,  I  will  try  to  help  your  work  from  yon 
der;  that  will  perhaps  redeem  some  of  my  wasted  time. 
Tell  Mr.  Fane  I  am  glad  he  told  me  the  truth.  Does  he 
love  you,  dear  ?  I  am  sure  he  is  a  good  man."  Then  after 
a  moment's  pause  she  added :  "Tell  Father  Martin  I  think 
I  shall  see  light." 

"Light  is  love,"  said  Elizabeth,  holding  her  in  her  arms; 
and  when  the  clashing  sound  rang  out  again  she  laid  her 
down,  and  was  gone.  As  she  stood  near  the  gangway  she 
met  Lady  Hornden. 

"Good-by,  dearest,"  she  said;  and  she  kissed  her  on 
both  cheeks.  "We  shall  be  back  with  the  spring,"  but 
her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

And  then  Elizabeth  crossed  back  to  the  shore,  and  the 
grating  sound  of  the  engine  which  raises  the  anchor 


330  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

ground  out  its  harsh  note.  Tiers  of  human  beings  lined 
the  vessel's  cloistered  sides,  all  waiting,  full  of  hope  or  of 
sadness,  of  joy  or  of  regret.  The  great  heart  of  the  liner 
was  throbbing  with  humanity's  emotion.  Then  the  mighty 
ship  lifted  up  her  voice,  and  her  funnels  gave  out  the 
hoarse  note  of  farewell,  and  slowly,  solemnly,  irrevocable 
as  death,  she  turned  oceanward;  gently,  imperceptibly, 
she  moved  away  from  her  moorings,  farther  and  farther 
from  any  possibility  of  return. 

The  winter  sun  was  shining  low  and  red  in  the  after 
noon  sky,  making  a  pathway  of  gold  upon  the  waters. 
Soon  the  great  city  of  the  deep  was  taken  into  the  golden 
glory. 

"She  has  gone  out  into  the  light,"  thought  Elizabeth; 
and  she  felt  that  the  imprisoned  spirit  had  found  what  it 
sought,  as  she  put  out  to  sea.  Then  she  saw  no  more,  for 
her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

The  train  would  start  in  ten  minutes  for  London,  one 
of  the  officials  of  the  Southampton  line  told  her.  She 
walked  along  the  quay,  thinking  to  catch  one  more  glimpse 
of  the  ship.  A  man's  tall  figure  stood  outlined  against  the 
sky;  he  too  was  watching,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
and  then,  when  he  could  see  no  more,  turned,  and  Eliza 
beth  stood  face  to  face  with  Eric. 

"I  came,"  he  said,  "to  see  her  off.  I  thought,  perhaps, 
even  at  the  last  moment,  she  might  ask  for  me."  The 
tears  ran  down  his  cheeks;  he  did  not  try  to  wipe  them 
away.  "You  will  understand  all  I  am  going  through,  you 
have  such  a  splendid  sympathy." 

Elizabeth  was  really  sorry,  and  tried  to  say  some  words 
of  comfort.  He  seemed  so  utterly  broken,  she  had  not  the 
heart  to  let  him  return  alone,  and  so  he  journeyed  back 
with  her  to  London. 

She  told  him  of  Katherine's  courage  and  self-command. 
He  listened  intently  as  he  grew  calmer. 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  331 

"That  is  like  her,"  he  said;  "she  has  the  self-restraint 
of  perfect  breeding." 

Then  Elizabeth  spoke  of  her  unselfish  desire  to  please 
her  mother,  the  only  motive  which  had  taken  her  so  far 
from  home. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  Eric.  "I  sometimes  think,"  and 
he  spoke  eagerly,  "she  wants  to  try  me  still,  to  see  if  I  can 
stand  this  test.  I  believe,  you  know,  she  does  still  really 
care,  but  she  hides  it  from  everybody.  She  has  such  pride 
of  will." 

Should  she  undeceive  him,  or  let  his  poor  vanity  staunch 
its  wound  with  these  flimsy  lies?  Elizabeth  wondered. 
He  talked  on,  of  his  past  happiness,  of  all  he  had  endured. 

"  You  were  quite  right  in  all  you  said  to  me  in  Marshom 
Street ;  I  see  it  now.  I  behaved  abominably,  but,  by  God ! 
I  have  suffered  for  that  one  lapse,  as  few  suffer  for  a 
crime." 

Then  he  returned  to  the  possibility  of  Katharine's  relent 
ing.  He  was  sure  she  would  get  well,  if  her  mind  was  at 
rest.  As  he  talked  he  grew  happier;  then  he  turned  to 
Elizabeth,  and,  taking  a  long  look  at  her,  he  said : 

"Can  you  forgive  me?  You  have  suffered,  and  it  has 
been  my  fault."  He  was  sitting  opposite  to  her,  and  he 
bent  forward  and  took  her  hand.  "I  must  tell  you  now — I 
may  never  have  another  opportunity,  your  memory  has 
been  enshrined  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  my  heart.  I  car 
ried  it  like  some  holy  thing  into  danger,  and  I  always  knew 
your  prayers  surrounded  me,  and  guarded  me.  You  will 
believe  that,  won't  you  ?  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  little  girl,  you 
have  done  far  more  for  my  life  than  you  will  ever  know. 
Will  you  tell  me  that  I  have  still  a  place  in  your  heart?" 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth,  looking  steadily  at  him  with  her 
true  fearless  eyes.  "Your  place  is  gone;  another  has  it 
now." 

Eric  looked  bewildered. 


332  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"Was  it  possible,"  he  thought.  "Who  could  it  be? 
That  brutal  boor,  Fane,  I  suppose.  Poor  Elizabeth,  what 
have  I  driven  her  to?  I  have  been  cruel." 

When  they  reached  Victoria  they  parted,  and  as  Eliza 
beth's  cab  rattled  eastward,  she  thought  that  Katherine, 
who  had  sailed  away  toward  the  light,  had  after  all  the 
better  part,  for  life  was  often  an  ugly,  sordid  thing. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  garden  on  either  side  of  the  paved  path  that  led  to  the 
long,  low  house  was  gay  with  flowers.  Blue  delphiniums 
and  Madonna  lilies,  monthly  roses  and  mignonettes,  bright 
eschscholtzias  and  dwarf  snap-dragons,  delicate  colum 
bines  and  sweet-smelling  stocks,  massed  in  a  glorious  pro 
fusion.  White  butterflies  flitted  across  the  vivid  green 
lawn,  and  a  purple  clematis  had  thrown  its  arms  across  the 
porch,  royal  in  color,  and  lavish  in  its  wealth  of  blossom. 

In  the  sunshine  lay  a  pink  and  white  bundle.  Some 
times  the  pink  moved,  and  little  arms  fought  upwards,  and 
tiny  feet  kicked  out  toward  the  sky.  They  were  promptly 
covered  by  the  careful  hand  of  Sally,  who  sat  holding  a 
white  umbrella  over  the  bundle  with  patient  care.  Sally, 
dressed  in  a  cotton  frock,  with  a  clean  apron,  and  her  hair 
tightly  plaited  and  drawn  away  from  her  face. 

The  sound  of  children's  voices  came  from  the  orchard, 
shouting  at  their  play.  The  white  curtains  flapped  in  the 
breeze  through  the  open  casements,  making  a  gentle  monot 
onous  flutter,  like  a  sail  on  a  calm  day. 

Presently  an  upper  window  was  thrown  wide  open. 

"Is  he  sleeping,  Sally?"  came  Elizabeth's  voice. 

"No,  'e  ain't,  but  I  think  as  'e's  goin'  to,"  said  Sally, 
looking  up. 

"Bless  his  darling  little  heart,"  said  Elizabeth,  and  in 
the  cadence  of  her  voice  was  the  music  only  learned  by 
those  who  are  happy. 

"You'd  better  get  the  children  in,  or  dinner  will  be 
cold,"  said  the  warning  voice  of  Martha  from  a  lower 
region. 

333 


334  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

"I  will  call  them,"  she  said,  and  by-and-by  the  tall 
figure  in  a  pink  cotton  gown  was  speeding  toward  the 
orchard. 

The  children  were  picking  armfuls  of  flowers,  shaky 
grass,  and  yellow  dandelions,  and  moon  daisies. 

"  Nance,"  said  one,  pausing  with  a  big  dandelion  clock 
in  his  hand,  "I  just  loves  Mrs.  Elizabeth." 

"So  der  I,"  said  Nance,  standing  in  front  of  Dan,  ready 
to  blow  when  the  word  was  spoken. 

"Come  to  dinner;  come  to  dinner,"  called  Elizabeth, 
with  the  sun  shining  on  her  at  the  gate.  And  with  shrieks 
of  happy  laughter  they  trooped  back  to  the  house,  where 
Martha  stood,  spoon  in  hand,  behind  a  bowl  of  soup,  her 
face  a  little  older,  her  hair  a  little  whiter,  but  serene  and 
content. 

Dinner  over,  they  pressed  round  Elizabeth. 

"  Tell  us  a  story.  Do,  please,  please  do."  And  she  sat 
down  on  the  grass  with  the  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
rocked  him  to  and  fro,  while  Sally  cleared  the  dinner 
things. 

"A  story — what  sort?" 

"'Bout  soldiers,"  said  a  boy. 

"About  lidies,"  said  a  girl  with  a  shaggy  fringe. 

"No,  about  firies,"  said  another,  "them  wot  dances  in 
the  night,  and  makes  weddin'  rings  in  the  grawst." 

"Tell  us  about  hingels,"  said  another. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  the  baby,  and  then  she  told  the 
children  to  come  very  softly  and  see  him  asleep. 

"The  angels  are  whispering  to  him,"  she  said;  "all  day 
long  they  keep  their  wings  folded  round  him.  Their  touch 
has  been  on  his  cheek,  their  breath  on  his  little  pink  face. 
They  will  play  with  him  when  he  wakes,  and  make  him 
smile.  The  whole  world  is  fanned  by  their  beautiful 
wings;  and  how  busy  they  are  in  heaven  helping  God  to 
keep  the  children  from  harm." 


UNDER  THE  ARCH  335 

Then  she  looked  at  the  eager  circle,  and  the  tears  dimmed 
her  eyes,  as  she  said: 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,  he  will  grow  up,  and  the  world  will 
hide  them  from  him,  but  I  pray  not.  But  they  are  with 
you,  just  as  they  are  with  him,  even  when  you  have  no 
longer  the  grass  and  the  flowers  to  speak  to  you  of  God's 
beautiful  goodness;  the  angels  will  be  with  you  on  the 
doorsteps  and  in  the  court.  They  won't  leave  you,  chil 
dren,  you  belong  to  them." 

The  sound  of  the  lifting  of  the  gate-latch  ma'de  her  look 
up.  A  man's  figure  stood  between  the  flower  borders. 
Elizabeth  went  toward  him  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  Michael,  I  did  not  think  you  would  come  back  so 
soon."  And  she  held  out  the  sleeping  child  to  him. 
"Take  him,"  she  said,  "that  I  may  put  my  arms  round 
you." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  face,  and  took  the  baby,  and 
together,  with  arms  entwined,  they  stood  looking  at  the 
tiny  form.  And  then  they  smiled  at  one  another,  as  those 
only  can  who  understand  each  other's  hearts. 

"I've  good  news,  Betty.  Bill  has  come  out  of  the 
reformatory,  and  he  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

"Sally,"  called  Elizabeth,  "do  you  hear?  Bill  will 
come  to  morrow." 

After  one  shriek  of  joy,  Sally  ran  indoors  to  tell  Martha. 

Michael  looked  across  the  garden  to  where  the  children 
played.  They  were  tired  of  waiting,  and  were  playing  the 
game,  Nuts  in  May. 

"They  go  to-morrow,"  said  Elizabeth,  following  his 
eyes.  "  Then  the  old  people  come.  Oh,  Michael,  I'm  so 
glad  we  needn't  keep  happiness  all  to  ourselves,  but  that 
we  can  make  a  house  of  joy  for  others.  Isn't  it  good? 
Listen,  I  hear  bells,"  she  said,  pausing  suddenly.  "Why 
are  they  pealing?" 

"Errington  brings  home  his  American  wife  to-day,  with 


336  UNDER  THE  ARCH 

all  her  bags  of  dollars."  A  shadow  passed  across  her  face. 
"Does  it  hurt  you,  Betty?"  said  Michael. 

"Hurt  me!  how  should  it?  My  life  is  filled  and  blest. 
I  was  thinking  of  Katherine  and  all  her  pain." 

"It  seems  to  her  but  a  slight  affliction  now,"  said 
Michael,  "for  she  and  I  have  both  found  light." 

"And  I  have  found  love,"  said  Elizabeth. 

THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBHARY  FAC    ITY 


A    000  549  891     0 


